Amour Fou
by JeanG
Summary: JxHQ A cell in Arkham Asylum. A psychiatrist. Her patient. Delusion, madness, insanity and... love? Yes, another Joker&Harley Quinn-TDK-MadLovic story. Give it a chance. This is a translation from Italian. And... yes. The original is complete.
1. The Night Watch

**AMOUR FOU**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**I**

**Prologue  
"The Night Watch"**

_Don't let the dark into me  
We killed the angels that warned us of you  
Don't let the dark into me  
We raised the tower of Babel for you  
Don't let the dark into me  
We let the children build temples for you  
Don't let the dark into me  
Don't let the vengeance of Heaven be you _

(Gary Numan, _Dark_)

It's a windless, smoggy night at the Gotham docks.  
The foghorn calls to warn the mariners, lest their attention slips, and late night walkers to keep an extra eye on their way home.  
The apparent calm fools nobody. Each and every Gothamite is aware that the dark wing that used to protect the city like a blanket has now fallen upon it, to suffocate it. Hero and murderer wear the same mask.

It's an uncommonly uneventful night in Gotham.  
No gunshots, no police cars chasing someone in the streets. Even crime seems to have chosen some form of restrain this dying day, the day Harvey Dent has been laid into the ground, a waxen mask on a wasted body, a heroic veil hiding an inglorious demise.  
James Gordon keeps his gaze glued to the TV screen, but the images of that afternoon at the monumental graveyard don't really register in his mind. He doesn't recognize as genuine the tears shed by the populace, and feels guilty about it. He's the only keeper of the great chicanery. He and his _accomplice_, the dark avenger who as of today will have to hide and carry the burden of slander.  
James Gordon thinks lying is in the blood of the city. The city rests on putrid foundations, and there's precious little that he can do at the moment, save for taking a look at his own children and call it a day.

It's a harsh and stagnant night in Gotham City.  
Pino Maroni, for the first time in months, goes to sleep with a smirk on his lips. The loose cannon is under custody, in solitary in the pits of Arkham Asylum, and his nemesis is now no more than a mass murderer with a gigantic ransom on his head, after doing him the splendid gift of ridding him of St. Harvey Dent and his own father.  
And now there's a city ravaged by bombs and panic to reconstruct, which translates into scores of contracts ready to fall into his lap and hundreds of bribes to cash.  
Being naturally an optimist he knows that things are returning to their erstwhile condition, to the good old days. And he'll be the first in line to reap the fruits of that rebirth, once made clear to Umberto who's in charge now.  
For the time being he just has to wait for the smell of fire and gunpowder to disperse.

It's a night of pale, flickering light in the Gotham haze.  
Bruce Wayne is watching them from above and his impression that they might belong to another world makes the sense of loneliness that's been oppressing him for the last few days even more crushing.  
The watchtower has struck two. Tonight the guardian angel won't spread his wings. He's not needed at the moment, and outside he's being hunted for, to be put in chains. It's what he wanted, no matter if no one will ever say thank you to him. Thinking like a criminal, acting like a vigilante, this is what he must learn to do now. So he needs some day to prepare for the police. For Jim Gordon.  
And still there's a bitter mouthful to swallow. Harvey Dent was buried alongside Rachel.  
Bruce Wayne wishes he had a cuirass to shield him from that kind of wound, but not even Fox could put one together for him. And Fox isn't there anymore, anyway.  
They all slowly drift away.

It's a night of frenetic activity on the hill a mile away from Gotham center.  
Paulo Morales has been working in Arkham for ten years, but has never lived through hours like these.  
He and Everton unload from the van the last madman to be sheltered inside those walls. They were picked because they're the tallest, the bulkiest, the strongest. And Everton has heavy hands. Further, six snipers are ready with tranquillizing darts that would knock an elephant out. Their wide open eyes make him uneasy: should their aim be a quarter of an inch by the side they would send him to dreamland instead of the felon. Thankfully the detainee has decided to cooperate.  
The guy must have well-introduced allies: he won't be sent to Blackgate to wait for the trial. Or maybe someone hopes that they can fix his brains before he gets to court, so that they can slap thirty life sentences on him. But that's Dr Arkham's worry. His worry is to see that he makes it to his cell.  
Oh so meekly, held in his straightjacket, the weirdo moves his head from side to side, smirking. He smirks constantly, there's no way to make him stop, "not even a hefty punch to the left kidney" Everton confirmed after experimenting with it.  
Paulo Morales struggles to recognize that disfigured but harmless face as the sadistic clown in the harrowing footage broadcasted by… what network was it? Doesn't matter. Even without makeup, the matter doesn't change. This man, no, this _freak_ has weeks of solitary ahead. As he gets a scrutinizing look from the monster, Paulo Morales realizes that the arrangement will be a good thing especially for those who will be safe from his clutches.  
Quick now, better be quick. Lock him in and forget about the thing, the massacres he committed with a crazed blood red grin painted on his face. Because in spite of his anger, his craving for vengeance and the animal urge to make him pay, to hurt him so badly that he'll beg for mercy, to take one or two teeth away from his obsessive smile, Paulo Morales recognizes that he's scared.

It's just another night glued to the laptop in a Gotham downtown apartment.  
In Dr Harleen Quinzel's living room the PC and muted telly's artificial lights burn the woman's eyes, so she takes her glasses off and looks for some relief pondering over the final chapter.  
No matter the shelves crammed with DVD's filling her evenings with passionate love stories and classic romance novels by the dozen, tonight it's a tape of crime news that provides a silent sonic tapestry to her typing. Less than thirty pages to the last word.  
Doctor Quinzel's books sell well, notwithstanding her colleagues' sneering at what they dub "mall psychology". She lets them say what they want, it's all envy after all.  
She had counted on her latest effort, "Criminal minds and purported mental balance", to silence them for good, but Jonathan Crane, _her final chapter_, had the most inconvenient idea of healing completely in record time. With every session Harleen Quinzel enthuses about his progress, congratulates him for having fully re-integrated within the social structure and asks him if he really threw his horrible scarecrow mask away. He consistently lies that he did.  
Yet Dr Arkham told her in unmistakable terms not to dwell on his period of illness whenever meeting Jonathan. She's not to dig further. Her boss thinks it could be damaging. He's afraid he could relapse, and the asylum might lose reputation. Of course this is her deduction only.  
And Jonathan himself chafes at her attempts to return to the topic. "These things depress me, Harley. I have an idea. We could hold our next meeting by candlelight. Would you like that? We could reminisce about our college days".  
Usually she pretends to want to put him back into his place, tells him once more that trying to hook up with his psychiatrist is harmful, but Jonathan is objectively very cute and she found him attractive even as they were but freshmen. His shoulders are too gaunt, but she could overlook such a detail should she one day decide to supersede with professional ethics and really go on a date with him. Before the glint of madness, what she's really interested in, vanishes for good from his immense eyes.  
Harleen Quinzel stirs and feels her collar bones creak. Immense eyes or not, Jonathan Crane won't be the icing of the cake of her book anymore. And searching Arkham from top to bottom won't help either. Neither a tour of Blackgate would come useful now, after that mined ferries matter she expects the prison to be evacuated. Weren't the boys so good, so ethically pristine, when they didn't blow a load of honest citizens up? Harleen Quinzel is ready to bet that the public opinion will cry for them to be set free.  
She turns her laptop off without saving. She only wrote a worthless couple of pages full of empty phrases. She gets up, turns the light on and frowns at the begonias on the table.  
"_Movie night confirmed Wednesday at eight at my place. Kiss kiss. Pam_".  
Pam can't send messages. Pam ignores e-mail exists. Card after card, she's filling her house with vegetables. Movie night, the thrilling mid-week entertainment.  
Surely Harleen Quinzel wouldn't want her life to be like the romance novels that crowd her library: she would just be satisfied with something to break the monotony. She yawns and looks around trying to gather the strength to get into the kitchen and fix herself a vestigial dinner. The faux-Venetian masks her mother bought at a TV auction glare at her with empty orbits and tight lips. Only one out of five attempts a smile. She'll be the only one spared from the trash bin.  
Harleen Quinzel stops the VCR barely glancing at the clown who's spitting out menacing words at the camera.  
Her last chapter will have to wait another 24 hours. Somehow she'll find a solution. After all she has nothing but her job, the gym and Pamela to spend her remaining time on.  
Harleen Quinzel's problem is just that Gotham is a boring city: boring to death. Nothing ever happens in the blasted town.

_Don't let the light shine on me  
I am the poison that feeds life to you  
Don't let the light shine on me  
I am the demon that waits inside you  
Don't let the light shine on me  
I am the ghost that reminds death of you  
Don't let the light shine on me  
I am the darkness that crawls into you_

(Gary Numan, _Dark_)


	2. Showtime

**AMOUR FOU**

**II**

**Therapy n.1  
"Showtime"**

_It's you that I adore  
You will always be my whore  
You'll be a mother to my child  
And a child to my heart  
We must never be apart_

Lovely girl  
You're the beauty in my world  
Without you there aren't reasons left to find

And I'll pull your crooked teeth  
You'll be perfect just like me  
You'll be a lover in my bed  
And a gun to my head  
We must never be apart

(The Smashing Pumpkins, _Ava Adore_)

Dr Harleen Quinzel is fifteen minutes late for her job and sports eye bags such as won't disappear without a chamomile pack and ten hours straight of sleep. The latter she can't just afford. Makeup didn't work, it merely left on her face two grotesque stripes darker than her skin above her cheekbones. Harleen has grown pale staying awake all night for days. Lily-white complexion, her dear Judith Krantz would say.  
She stops thinking about the state of her skin the moment she enters Arkham to find coworkers, nurses and guards on a buzz. Because someone's listened to her prayers, dropping within her reach a novelty that's just _too_ interesting.  
"They brought him in last night without telling anyone. They don't want the other patients to know. They're afraid they would find a way to do him in". Joan Leland shudders exaggeratedly. Such a drama queen.  
Instead, Harley can define the whole thing with just a single word: strange. A few days after getting caught that man can't be there. Not without a diagnosis. Not before a regular trial. And at nine straight in the conference room, a room filled with antiques and stern-eyed portraits of the founder, his mother and the whole family, she gets the answer, clarifying by what curious chance an authentic, too good to believe unique piece of psychopathology has been laid in front of her.

The trick is having a firm hand, and not missing the perfect axis. It's after all like building a castle of cards, or keeping one's body parallel to the ground while holding onto the rings.  
On her third attempt the pencil stays straight up on the smooth surface of the table Dr Jeremiah Arkham so cherishes. Harleen Quinzel slides down until her chin touches its surface to watch it tower above her like a massive yellow monolith.  
"There are but few, clear and simple facts. The clown has a dozen star lawyers working for him, and they're pushing for a mental infirmity".  
"Who's paying for them?"  
Ouch. Stephen Connor dared interrupt His Eminence. But Dr Arkham can't be bothered to flay him, it seems.  
"We don't know, of course. But we might guess: someone who wants him out as soon as possible to pester Salvatore Maroni's heirs".  
Boring. The old coot could render lifeless the most interesting topic with his prattle.  
"The Police department instead wants to get a hold of him and send him to Blackgate with a declaration signed by one of us confirming the perfect mental health of the subject".  
The yellow monolith thinks itself indestructible, but Harleen is about to demonstrate how easily she could tear it down with a gush of wind. She blows, and the gigantic tower of wood and graphite falls down.  
_Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair! Tick._  
"This does not concern us at all. We shall do our job and enter the court to render our statement under oath. We shall… the one who will handle the case shall go".  
"We should… we should start a therapy cycle with that… that…" Joan sounds terrified. How devoid of sense of adventure is that woman.  
"Nobody's forcing you, Dr Leland. _None_ of you are required to be around the criminal who calls himself the Joker. A cool head is paramount. So is not dropping one's guard. Ever. That man's mind is a knotted mess. We know nothing about him: his name, birth date, clinic status. Nothing. We only know he's dangerous, that he takes pleasure from killing and that apparently he has no behavioral pattern aimed at anything. Although we should have a definite answer. Dr Quinzel, when you're through with playing with pencils, would you reward us with your extrapolations concerning the topic we're discussing?"  
Harleen sits straight, holding back a frown. Raise your hand if you want the Joker. Extra hours will be regularly paid.  
"How about calling an exorcist?" she replies, eliciting a suppressed laugh from her colleagues and a baleful glare from the old man.  
"We have the police reports on the subject's _career_. I'll give a copy to whomever takes the case" Arkham drones on as if she didn't speak at all. "After examining them I'd be grateful if you would not abandon the task. Consider yourselves forewarned that we're dealing with butchery, in every sense of the word".  
An irredeemable case. Harley has a good eye for such things. She didn't pick her instincts from textbooks. But she believes that declaring that fellow perfectly sane is the thing to do, so that he can spend the rest of his lifetime in a maximal security prison. _Or_…  
Or she should take advantage of the opportunities the situation presents. Butchery, in every sense of the word…  
"Now", Arkham rises from his end table seat, "anyone interested in the task follow me. We're going down to see the interested party, for a few minutes only. Don't address him, don't answer any question he could possibly ask and don't stare at him. It's an established fact that he loses control whenever anyone concentrates upon his face too long".  
Truly exciting. The face behind the makeup and greasepaint. A privilege nobody, not even that wimp Joan, seems to want to renounce. Seven pairs of legs follow the old man docilely. Harley knows already that come tomorrow the only ones to reach the isolation cell will be hers.

The staircase plunges into what once were the cantinas, where the late lamented Amadeus Arkham kept his wine before deciding that his merry mansion was to become an insane asylum. Now the place is known as "Hell", and like any hell it has it lowest circle.  
It's always cold down there. In winter it's freezing, but in the summer the guards play cards for the privilege of being assigned to the unit. Not that it's really an _unit_. The white lights shine upon a metal door and, further, a room that was separated from the final end of the corridor with a Plexiglas wall. The crypt where riotous patients are thrown into. The next step is the padded cell.  
"He's been oddly quiet" the guard on duty, Morales if she remembers well, informs the doctor replying to a simple _how's it going down here?_ "He also said thank you for the breakfast. But he has me on the edge. He has this strange way of talking… as if words were unrolled out of his mouth. Oh, I did not talk to him doctor, be sure of that".  
_What makes you think he's worried, Morales? The old corpse never is. Probably he and the clown are the only people calm down here right now_, Harleen muses mustering the bravery to look at the frightful murder who held the headlines for months.  
"_That_ is the Joker?" Stephen Connor voices her incredulity as well.  
Sitting on his cot against the wall, wearing the red uniform of the institution and arms crossed behind his head the only adjectives Harleen can come up with to describe him are "harmless" and "banal". This automatically makes her realize that she's in the presence of a really dangerous man.  
A stratified mania. Fascinating. Truly fascinating. A labyrinthine mind, a IQ probably far above average, hidden behind a common appearance, in turn camouflaged by a stage apparel excessive and gaudy.  
The object of all the attentions barely turns his head and merely looks at them with apparent indifference, but Harleen recognizes the glance as subtle and penetrating as a metal probe.  
"I didn't think he was so young…" she whispers. For a moment she thinks he's laughing, but it was just a trick of the light on the scars crossing his cheeks.  
The Joker. The monster who kept Gotham on her toes, the charlatan who woke her from her torpid slumber with nitroglycerin and exhibitions like an acrobat and a juggler's.  
"Is he sedated, doctor Arkham?" Joan asks. A legitimate suspicion. But that calm isn't obscured by anything, although he won't spring like a cobra. Not yet.  
"I did not prescribe anything. I can only surmise that he's still under the effect of what surely he was given for the relocation".  
"We can't start working with him if his mind isn't clear. He _has_ to be in his mind, Dr Arkham". The old man knows it all very well, but her instinct made her underscore them. Because now she can see it clearly, as if already written.  
_My final chapter_.  
Her colleagues' voices are a nondescript buzz. He's looking at her. Only at her. Now he's really grinning, although she can't be as sure about her impression that he winked at her.  
_Splendid. A mind balancing between genius and insanity. And it's mine. Nobody else will raise his dirty paws in your direction.  
_"Stand back, doctor Quinzel".  
Arkham's voice pulls her out of her reverie of synapses and razor blades and Harleen realizes she has been standing with her hands on the transparent surface. She steps back following her trained instincts but does not avert her eyes.  
_My final chapter? And my next book…_  
When did he sit down? And when has he started humming? Very bad signs. He's taken possession of the environment and feels safe within it.  
"Let's go now" Arkham orders. "Those interested in taking care of the patient are to have their request delivered tomorrow in the morning".  
_No, not yet. I can't leave without interacting with him_.  
She hears her colleagues walk in the security door direction. She needs a few more seconds.  
_Show me an inkling of your madness. A minimal dosage. It would be enough.  
_His off-kilter tune dies down, melting with an almost unintelligible phrase, modulated like the vain search for a specific lost radio channel among out of tune fragments of mangled words.  
"How about introductions doc? Before the old timer takes you away, far from my spurts of affection. Rigid, rigid . Of course, within that… straightjacket, doctor"  
He's playing, and clearly testing her. They've been throwing hooks at each other. But she has the advantage of reason.  
"Delighted. My name is Harleen Quinzel, but friends call me Harley. What would your name be, instead?"  
She didn't miss a beat. She does not expect him to immediately open up, but she proved him that she doesn't fear him, that he's not the ones calling the shots in Arkham. Her colleagues have stopped. They have an audience, but she doesn't care. May the old man see and judge.  
His gulping, hysterical laughter cuts her satisfaction short. Harleen jolts despite herself. Here it is, the sound that drove Gotham crazy. The urge to flee and her inability to move, mesmerized by that almost unnatural sound, make her head spin.  
"'_Friends call me Harley_'" the madman mewls. "You _flirting _with _me, _lady? Harleen Quin-zel, Harley Harley, Harle-quin-quin-quin" that laughter again. And her name distorted and repeated obsessively.  
"Quinzel!" Arkham is all but growling now.  
Harleen lost all her willingness to disobey. She joins her co-workers on shaky legs and submits passively to the old man's withering glance. Behind her the singsong starts again, this time with intelligible words.  
"_Y' know my girl's a pretty thin'… her name is Harle-quin_…"  
The closing door deprives her of the little tune, yet Harleen grins finding her calm again. No matter how angry Arkham is at her right now, nobody will dare take her patient away from her now. _He_ will never let it happen.

_Lovely girl  
You're the murder in my world  
Dressing coffins for the souls I've left to die  
Drinking mercury  
To the mystery of all that you should ever leave behind  
In time_

In you I see dirty  
In you I count stars  
In you I feel so pretty  
In you I taste god  
In you I feel so hungry  
In you I crash cars  
We must never be apart

(The Smashing Pumpkins, _Ava Adore_)


	3. A spanner in the works

**AMOUR FOU**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**III**

**Therapy n.2  
"A spanner in the works"**

_A candy-colored clown they call the Sandman  
Tiptoes to my room every night  
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper  
Go to sleep, everything is all right._

I close my eyes, then I drift away  
Into the magic night, I softly say  
A silent prayer, like dreamers do.  
Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.

In dreams I walk with you, in dreams I talk to you.  
In dreams you're mine, all of the time we're together  
In dreams, in dreams.  
  
(Roy Orbison, _In dreams_)

Harleen Quinzel loathes that smell, thick, carnal, insidious, that makes her breathing hard. She notices it first as soon as she's out of the elevator, and in front of the door of Pamela Isley's flat it becomes insufferable. Ringing the bell she thinks that this time she's going to tell her that she's going too far. An apartment is not a botanical garden, and it's not polite to guests to force them to possibly fight for space on the armchair with ivy vines and wisteria bunches in full bloom.  
Pam's appearance as she opens the door takes all the fight out of her. She seems to have just awoken.  
"Harley…?"  
"It's… Wednesday, sweetheart" she points out, waving a flask of wine she just bought.  
Pamela's face is a spot of sickly pallor under the red mane.  
"What's wrong with you?" Harleen asks, although she knows full well.  
Her friend lets her in whispering something like "… forgotten…". "Forgotten" to be interpreted as no dinner ready. The idea sends her in a bad mood, more than Pamela's condition. The euphoria she felt when she left home and that brought her to speeding and ignoring at least three red lights, which makes her feel extremely excited, is starting to wane.  
"Ok, I can't smell food. And you don't look like you could remedy that and go grab a bite at the Iceberg Lounge" she remarks watching the lady of the house's yellowish complexion and barely hearing her apology. She has no use for apologies. Dear Pamela ruined her evening, because she persists in behaving like a brainless idiot. She removes a nettle vase from the couch and sits looking at her with reproach.  
"We could order at the Chinese takeaway" proposes Pam, patently guilt-ridden.  
"Nah. You'd need a warm broth, like the ones my granny made for me when I fell ill with influenza".  
Another thirty seconds and she'll tell her. She studied her announcement with too much care to waste it. One, two, three…  
"Would you take a look at this?" she says, extracting a sheet of paper from her purse and handing it to her. "It's my request for the Joker to be my patient".  
A glimmer of interest sparkles in Pam's weary eyes. "Joker?" she says grabbing the sheet with trembling fingers. "The Joker's at Arkham? And you saw him?"  
Is it fear or enthusiasm? Harleen isn't sure. Maybe a combination of both. In this city of depress folks people are printing t-shirts sporting this year's number one criminal's pasty face. Around they're much more common than the ones commemorating the late Harvey Dent. The ones with Batman's insignia have vanished from the market after his erstwhile supporters publicly burned the ones they had bought.  
"Yeah. And I want to be on his case. Can you tell me if that letter is convincing enough?"  
Pamela's eyes almost roll back in their orbits . She's clearly unwell, but it's not the time for another lecture. It would not help. If she could have things her way, if there were no rules to follow, if she could put aside any scruple towards those who are reducing her like that… But she can't. The way things go in this madcap world, she can only stand and watch as her best friend lets herself be ruined.  
_You're an idiot, Pamela. Just say no.  
_"And did you talk to him? How is he? Is it true his face is so deformed one can't look at him? He must be hideous". Pamela is still oscillating between cataplexy and euphoria. Two more minutes like this and she'll drag her to the hospital, willy-nilly. She can't help her as much as she needs.  
"Pam, you'd better get under a cold water stream".  
Pamela leans in her direction angrily. "Is his face hor-ri-ble?" she insists.  
_Horrible_.  
Harleen stands up and goes to the window. She needs some air, some familiar Gotham smog. That mortician lab smell makes her dizzy.  
_Horrible_.  
This is how black legends are born: turning a sick man into a monster.  
"Not at all" she replies, amazed to sound more irked than she'd like to. His scars aren't remediable, and surely marked his personality like fire. If only she could make him tell her _how_ he got them… "He's rather cute I'd say. The poor man has enough problems already without having everyone pile on him because of a couple meaningless scratches".  
Pamela stares at her wide-eyed.  
_What's the matter?_  
"Harley, are you feeling well?"  
Is she serious? She who does not even know what's flowing inside her veins?  
"I'm perfectly fine, which is more than can be said of you". Pam of all people can't afford to look sceptical. Maybe she's been a bit harsh, but to really do a good job she has to assume to be simply dealing with someone whose psyche has to be healed, not with an orc, a demon, something other than human. "He said I'm his Harlequin…" she whispers.  
Who knows if there's been a time when he mixed with people, like the rest of the world, and his mind still followed linear patterns. Or if madness is simply part and parcel of his DNA.  
"His…" Pamela starts to say before emptying a stream of greenish, aqueous vomit on her own pants, the floor and the letter for Dr Arkham. She throws her head back with a raspy lament and wilts into the armchair unconscious.

As a child Pamela Isley simply dreamed of being a florist. She had told her more than once that she had quite an old-fashioned romanticized view of the job. She used to picture herself in a fluffy gown, an apron and a lace bonnet, walking the streets of Seattle with a carriage full of tulips, roses and peonies. The reality was different, more prosaic but not less fascinating.  
When Harleen Quinzel had met her, two years before, she had just moved from the Gardner University to Gotham and had already become the assistant of botany professor Jason Woodrue. And she told wonders of him. Even now she claims he's a towering genius. This makes Harleen's blood boil.  
After ensuring herself that her breathing was regular, Harleen has taken off her filthy clothes and cleaned the floor. Now she's watching her sitting in the armchair, munching some crackers she found in the kitchen.  
_Just what you should expect for an evening among the girls, isn't it?  
_She threw a blanket on her friend: if she doesn't regain her senses soon she'll be forced to spend the night there and wake up at dawn to return home, get changed and go to work.  
At the beginning of their friendship Pamela told her that she thought she'd found a little sister, but now it's she who needs someone with the wisdom to guide her. When she took her sweater off she felt under her fingers the small wounds that mark like Morse code the point along the other's spine Jason Woodrue followed to inject his concoctions.  
"A genius, Harley. He taught me everything I know. Thanks to his studies the human immune system will become impervious to any kind of ill. I help him any way I can. And he would not do a thing should he think it could cause me harm, believe me".  
Congrats, doc. She just can't understand Pamela, she really can't. To her is unfathomable that someone could reduce herself like that for love.  
_Love is supposed to make us feel better, not…  
_"How do you feel?" she asks, noticing that Pamela's eyes have opened.  
"Better" she blurts out unconvincingly.  
Harleen swallows the last cracker. "Look, I know you told me it's not my business, but do you know that whatever your mad scientist is doing is illegal?"  
Pamela drags herself up emitting some sort of growl which transforms into coughing. "No it isn't. I signed a releasing document. I'm a volunteer, and the faculty knows exactly what… a document… where's your paper?"  
Harleen shrugs. Thankfully she has a copy on her hard disk. Had all her most carefully phrases been lost in Pamela's trash can coated with her vomit, it would have been a disaster. "We have more pressing matters to discuss. My new patient can wait. Your darling will eventually kill you if you let him go on, do you realize as much?"  
Pamela massages her face with her hands. "You're being overdramatic…"  
The urge of slapping her is growing stronger by the second. "No, I'm a _doctor_, you moron, and it's easily clear to me when someone's stepping on dangerous ground".  
The answer is an indistinct rumbling, so she has to ask Pamela to repeat herself.  
"I said that you don't _understand_, Harleen" the other woman hisses. She looks furious, so Harleen realizes that she's been once again talking to the wind. "I _can't_ let him down. Can't call myself out. It would be tantamount to a betrayal, and I _don't want_ to betray him. And don't you insist that this can't be love. Reality does not work like romance movies do, Harley, otherwise you'd have found a gorgeous charming prince instead of resurrecting the libido of a homicidal maniac. Harlequin. His Harlequin. What did you call him? 'Quite cute'. 'The poor man'. And you dare lecturing me?"  
"I was merely stating the obvious". _And you lost conscience a minute too late.  
_Curiously she founds out that she's not angry. All this is making her buoyant: she starts to laugh like an idiot. _My girl's a pretty thin'…_ Such a funny song. Nobody had ever serenaded her like that. She'll absolutely have to tell the story in her book. Resurrecting the libido of a homicidal maniac. Not a first for her at Arkham, yet this time she felt no repugnance. Because the maniac in question has been extremely polite, a politeness he'd have offered all the same in the absence of Plexiglas, in between razor slices.  
"Isn't that any girl's dream?" she asks laughing still.  
"You're crazy. Sooner or later Arkham will see you on the other side of the cell doors" Pamela concludes lying down again and turning away from her.

Harleen Quinzel hates gray days: they lower her spirits and the humidity in the air spoils her hair, making them bend in ways she never approved of. Plus, usually such weather introduces a day that will prove more than a little difficult to pass through. After spending the night nursing Pamela she rushed home to print a new copy of the letter for Arkham, so she could not prevent arriving to work late. Now she needs chocolate to recharge, and won't leave her office before having gobbled one of the bars she keeps hidden in the third drawer of the desk.  
But a red rose and a billet are exactly at the center of the desk top. Immediately Harleen thinks that someone asked the janitor to place them there and finds it truly romantic. The flower is a bud so dark it veers into violet. She caresses its velvety texture then reads the message to discover the identity of this poetic suitor. The hand is orderly yet angular.  
"_Come visit me sometime. J._"  
Harleen clenches her teeth as mounting rage sets her face and mind aflame. She does not know which one of her coworkers did bother to set this little trick up, but it only means that they think she's a favorite. And why then? Just to mock her for what happened yesterday? Absurd. It only made her all the more determined. She makes a ball of the message and is about to throw the flower in the paper bin when, for no true reason, she changes her mind. She blows the dust off the heaviest book in her library and places the rose between its pages.  
_It's too beautiful to throw it away, whoever might have sent it.  
_  
The good thing about Arkham Asylum is that it's far from urban chaos. The bad thing is that you can't even dream of crossing the bridge and having lunch in Gotham, and the mess is no five-star restaurant for sure. Harleen Quinzel didn't have the time to bring some food along from home, although it's not a real problem. Her stomach is closed, and not because of the stew, but for Joan Leland's smug face.  
It really wasn't what Harleen had expected. She just announced her that she has good chances to be chosen by Dr Arkham for the Joker. Although she couldn't say from where such optimism comes.  
"I fear, Harley, that yesterday's pantomime sent your shares to the pits".  
Such fun. To throw the tray into her face, leaving her covered with purée and stewed meat to end it with the master stroke of squashing the cherry pie on her forehead would bring her great satisfaction.  
_Snapshot._  
"I thought you were scared by him. That you weren't interested" she offers.  
_Sneaky snake. He'd swallow you in one bite and I'd be there to offer him some liqueur._  
"Curriculum, Harley. Know what it would mean, to be able to list having had the Joker as a patient in your credentials?"  
"Only if he walks out of here completely sane" she tries to curb her enthusiasm.  
Snapshot. _Snapshot!  
_The imbecile. Joker chose her, Joker spoke to her. He established a tie with her, and won't stand to be treated by anyone else. Arkham knows is. Surely before evening he'll summon her to his office to tell her that the Joker is all hers. She already planned the period of therapy before the trial out, sitting by sitting. Within three days he'll start talking about himself. She only has to cement the trust he somewhat accorded her.  
"Surely he stands a better chance to regain his balance with me, if your methods limit to frantically batting your eyelids. It does not good with psychopaths, didn't they warn you in college? But truthfully you looked cute yesterday. Twin souls, you were".  
The tray takes off. No cherry pie, but otherwise the picture is exactly as she imagined. "So cute to deserve a rose?"  
She'll stay hungry because lunch has just met Joan's face, but she knows she can resist. Later she'll dine out with Pamela to celebrate her oh so firmly assured new charge.  
She leaves the mess hall and goes almost without thinking to the isolation cell. Morales was just subbed by that guy she never recalls the name of. They're taking extra turns but, it seems, they're the only ones capable of physically restraining the Joker. _The lanky, frail looking guy…  
_"Doctor Quinzel… hello…" The man closes the security door and looks almost uncomfortable with her presence there.  
"Hello Paulo. I need to know a thing: did the Joker meet or talk with anyone but you?"  
The man is still looking away from her. "Two of his lawyers, yesterday evening. We allowed them in for ten minutes. Dr Arkham said not to spill word about it, except with the guy's therapist".  
Harleen smiles to him, but does not add that it's only a matter of hours then. His lawyers. So there's really a small chance that the rose might truly come from him. _Small, tiny, groundless, and I should not cling to it…  
_But if that were true, if he really knew the magic trick to make his voice reach her, it would mean that the Joker is waiting for her behind that door.  
"_Come visit me sometime_".  
Slowly, layer by layer, she'll reach his core. She has the right instruments to do it, who cares about Joan Leland's opinions about it. "You were cute…" What a funny idea. It makes her grin. Thinking about the clown always makes her grin.

The pouring rain has turned into a full-blown storm, with thunder and lightning giving Arkham asylum the look of a haunted castle when, exactly at six, Harleen Quinzel stops grinning. Her mood darkens as Stephen Connors' is made clear by his beaming face and the fact that he's inviting everyone out to drink tonight.  
Harley fantasizes. Once again it would be nothing if she could just run him over and get rid of him.  
But. There are buts. _But_ it can't be done because it's criminal, disloyal, a wicked thing to do, and good people don't do such things. Difficulties are to be overcome the honest way. Loyally. So they taught her since day one in kindergarten.  
But. There's another _but_ that he who could have become her patient, and her own hen that lays golden eggs, would find more important. Running over Connors wouldn't be much fun. Sheer brutality, devoid of any class. Oh, the splendid interviews they could have had. Pads and pads to be filled vanished in thin air. The levity that usually colors her way to approach matters seems to be gone. She knows everyone's laughing at her because they saw her lose a race that seemed to be all run. But the laugh that counts is always the last one. She's not sure how, but she'll set everything straight. It can't end like this.  
_He's mine, Arkham, imbecile. How could you give him to Connors?  
_She charges toward the office of the boss leaving her colleagues behind. Let them have fun talk behind her back, right now she must talk the old man into reviewing his decisions. She inhales deeply, puts on a calm expression and knocks. Arkham is putting his coat on.  
"Quinzel… I'm afraid I forgot my umbrella".  
_Really, really interesting_. "Sorry. Can't lend you mine". _Son. Of. A. Bitch._  
The old man offers her a passing glance. "Did you need anything? I'm rather in a hurry. Today it's my niece's birthday".  
Really another moment to regret not being able to shed one's inhibitions. Oh, to grab Arkham and punch the stuff out of him… "Just a single question, doctor. May I ask what made you decide to choose Connors for the Joker instead of me?  
The old man shakes his head understandingly, which makes her more angry. "You were never running, Harleen. Not after what happened yesterday. It's quite obvious that the Joker considers you the weak link which he can easily prevail on. This is why he tried to hit you on".  
Old coot. Weak link? He misunderstood everything. What could someone like Connors accomplish? Even the Joker knows and this is why he chose her. His extraordinary mind realized that the only one who could understand him, in there, is she. And Arkham talks about hitting on? No, no one understands. The mutual contact that was created in those few seconds of interaction is something between them only. She's the Joker's doctor, no matter what others may say.  
"I find your words rather offensive, Dr Arkham. Do you think I couldn't handle the situation? If I'm not mistaken you were skeptical even before giving me Jonathan Crane, but the simple facts proved me right. Do you remember how long it took me to get him back to his feet? Let me remind you: less than two months. I wish you could stop considering me the last comer, the rookie with no experience, whom patients see as the wimp to be prevailed on. It's not true. Maybe he talked to me because he felt some empathy, so with me there would be better results".  
"A remarkable speech. The answer is no: you won't get the Joker, Dr Quinzel".  
Stick a cutter in his throat. Then place a card on his forehead. _"I am wrong, Harleen is right"_. Yes, this would be somewhat funny.  
"I understand" she simply says.  
What about him? How will he take the news? _"Come visit me sometime".  
Sorry J, fate plots against us.  
_She drives home with the car radio at full blast. If it didn't rain like that she'd drive to the center, only to buy a _Free the Joker_ brooch. Just to spite Arkham. Instead she reaches home, goes under the shower and then puts a tape in the VCR. The fake Batman trembles without any dignity while _his_ voice interrogates him. _"Are you the real Batman?... No?... Then why do you dress like him?..."_  
The hostage's distraught face. His broken voice repeating that Batman taught him not to be afraid of scum like him… "_You do, Brian… you really do…"_ Then his face. Is he really the same man locked up in Arkham? The camera and the makeup deform his features. Only the gaze is the same, although drowned by the coal colored marks.  
_Look at Connors like that, J, and let's see what will be left of him.  
_And she, in spite of her valiant efforts, can't find a reason to laugh anymore.

_But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone.  
I can't help it, I can't help it, if I cry.  
I remember that you said goodbye._

It's too bad that all these things, can only happen in my dreams  
Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.  
  
(Roy Orbison, _In dreams_)


	4. Pleasantries

**AMOUR FOU  
IV**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Therapy n.3  
"Pleasantries"**

_Men are so nice_  
Lays can be  
_He pleases me fine_  
_Men are so useful_  
He's a flirt  
_Men are so useful_  
Reflection beauty  
_Men are so nice_  
_He pleases me fine_  
Reflection beauty  
_Men are so useful_

(Cocteau Twins, _I wear your ring_)

Harleen Quinzel gets her smile back between Monday and Tuesday, at five AM of yet another dull, rainy day. A distant sound removes her from her dreams crowded with Venetian masks in XVIII century garb dancing around her in a circle.  
_The alarm_ she says to herself half-awake, then a flicker of reason makes her realize it's her phone ringing. She reaches for the nightstand and fumbles for the receiver. Joan Leland's voice from the other end sound somber. Harleen determines to kill her should she have called to that she woke her up at that hour to demand the dry cleaner's money again, repeating that the stains the stew left on her scrub required special treatment.  
"When you'll apologize for calling me a slutty, unprofessional bimbo".  
"I can't. That's what you are".  
Thus some sort of armistice was reached between them.  
"Harleen, I'm Joan. Stephen was hospitalized".  
Suddenly she's fully awake. She knows. She knows how it happened. Not the details, of course, but she can't picture a car accident as she usually would. She looks into the darkness with eyes wide open. Euphoric. Euphoric and guilty. Because her thoughts are horrible, and she knows it. But this can't stop their flow.  
"How…? What happened?" she asks. She wants details. Wants to know why Joan is calling her at such an hour.  
"I don't know exactly. Last night, when you had already left, he went down to the isolation ward. He seemed to have been pleased with how the first sitting went. Everton heard him cry. Probably he tried to pass something, maybe some paper, to that maniac. Don't ask me how, but that madman managed to pull his arm inside his cell. But… God, Harley, I feel sick just thinking about it. He turned into a sort of raw hamburger, only with his bare hands. We're in the hospital now, he's been under surgery. Now he's in intensive care… Harley… Everton says he told that the Joker asked about you before the assault. He's been asking about you for two days…"  
That much she knew. Like she knows that getting past obstacles like that isn't the Joker's style. Attacking Connors without the slightest planning must have cost him much. Or maybe she got him wrong, maybe she overestimated him and he's nothing but a bloodthirsty whackjob.  
"Is the Joker still in isolation?"  
Joan doesn't reply immediately, maybe because she's wondering why she does not seem to sympathize with the victim at all. "No, he's in the padded cell. He couldn't remain there anyway, there was blood everywhere. Harley, tomorrow… this morning… Arkham will tell us his decisions. It seems that he doesn't want responsibility for that one. And the police will be there. Probably they'll ask you questions too".  
Questions. Just what answers do they want? _"Yes, I think he's crazy. Yes, I'm going to declare it in court. No, he's got no crush on me. This is poppycock. Did he really ask about me? So? Surely you don't think that he assaulted Connors because he wanted me to be his doctor. If so, commissioner, wouldn't you agree that we'd better humor him? To keep him calm 'til the trial starts. Taking every precaution, obviously".  
_"I see. Thank you, Joan" she says, trying to conceal the smile that just formed on her lips.  
She says goodbye to her coworker, thanks her once more then runs to the fridge looking for a beer. The last one left, six months old. Harleen is rather the soda type, but tonight, this morning rather, she needs something alcoholic. Because she's scared by the fact that the Joker has been extreme and magnificent. She sits by the window and scrutinizes the asleep neighborhood. It looks so quiet. The night scum is retiring. Honest people aren't awake yet. Nobody's keeping her company. She's afraid of what is waiting for her in a few hours. She knows that if she plays her cards well she could see him again. She _wants_ to see him again, no matter what happened. This is the scary bit.

Harleen Quinzel tells pretty agent Montoya everything she wants to know. That she spoke to the Joker only once, that she wasn't witness to the attack and that she's _really_ shaken by the event. She keeps quiet about the rose and the message. A girl has to keep some things to herself. And when, after obtaining her signature on her declaration, Montoya, her cute face and the rest of the boys in blue leave she feels brimming with adrenaline and ready to face Arkham again, pressing the only button that could raise the stakes some more.  
"It would be like confessing total failure, Dr Arkham. And what for? Wouldn't you agree that, should we declare him compos mentis without having had the time to study his case, we'd set a potentially embarrassing precedent?"  
The old man looks even more wizened than usual. He probably hasn't slept in 36 hours. This is for the better, tiredness will make him weak. Even her coworkers don't feel like protesting, limiting themselves to glaring at her with rancor and resignation. They all want him far from there, just like Arkham. Yet Arkham's pride is boundless, and Harleen must leverage that trait exactly.  
"Please doctor, let me try". Her pleading look might do the job. The mummy is still a man after all, and no man can remain cold as ice when faced with two languid blue eyes.  
"I'm not sure, Quinzel…" The big boss massages his temples. Harleen realizes he desperately needs some rest. "I can't endanger more of the personnel…"  
"Not even if I formally declared the asylum free of any responsibility for anything should happen to me from now on? Should I fail, the blame would fall entirely with me. And if instead everything should go smoothly you could count it as one of _our_ victories". The temptation is strong, Arkham will cave in in a matter of seconds. Less than ten. But he finally gives his nod after twenty, and she feels incredibly light-headed. This is marvelous. Had the old man been reasonable from the start they would have spared themselves all the drama. Now the strongest card, a smiling shiny joker, is firmly in her grip.  
"A final thing, Dr Arkham. I want absolute control over this matter, total free movement and full decisional power".  
It's a gamble. She's risking everything. But with so much on the floor retiring would be cowardly.  
"Don't overreach yourself, Quinzel. You'll have to prepare a detailed report after every talk with the patient. And you will not have him meet any other member of the staff, excluding the men in charge of keeping him under control. Further, he's not to have contact with any other guest of the hospital".  
_Just this? It's perfect then.  
_Harleen pretends to be weighing the conditions. In truth she'd like nothing better than to howl out her elation. "Fine by me, Dr Arkham. And, should I experience any problem, I'd love to have your consent to come to you for advice". Adulation is another thing Arkham finds pleasing. Especially when you know his fears and his skeletons in the closet . "I promise you won't see the like of last year's chaos, when you placed too much trust in Jonathan and the place turned into a nightmare in a few months".  
Arkham doesn't like to be reminded about that. The crazed crowds, the island closed, policemen everywhere, rampaging madmen and mass hallucinations. He'd rather believe that Jonathan Crane was nothing more than a patient of his, whom Batman just happened to catch after nine months at large, brought back to sanity in record time hoping the people would forget about him as quickly as possible. His precious pet. How many times had Arkham said as much? His heir. The only one who could set him free from the weight of responsibilities that were becoming too ponderous. And his toxic gas, the experiments on fear. All under his nose. There's no way Harleen can truly believe that Arkham knew nothing, in spite of the police clearing him of any allegation regarding what was going on in the basement of the northern wing, where no one was supposed to have been since years. _You gave him absolute power over your tiny little world, and he betrayed you most crassly. I'm just asking you a few hours with the Joker. Kindly don't be fussy._ Once again it works. "Good luck Harleen", he tells her.  
She accepts the well wishes, but feels she doesn't need them. She already met her luck, and it's locked in a padded cell two floors below her.

When not a moment too soon the dossier on the Joker reaches Harleen Quinzel, she reads it carefully, page after page, sipping her coffee and holding back the temptation to search the envelope disorderly, looking for some kind of revelation. Had she only had such plenty of material at hand one year before she could have started a bigger project instead of limiting herself to two paltry columns. But there's no point in regretting what's gone: one year ago the Joker was not the social phenomenon he is now. He hadn't given his best yet. Instead right now, after reaching the zenith of his criminal, turbulent life, right after having fallen into the hands of justice, he's all at her disposal. And she can do as she prefers.  
Some leaves are burned, others are pristine, as they come from the central archive. Because the police station was devastated by a bomb the night the Joker was caught and fled again, and there's pretty little left of the original record. Harleen holds back a retch reading about _the bomb_. She's a doctor after all, she should think in terms of organic/mechanical functions. It appears. It is said. Those who saw it close… _skin, seams, meat, display, sound…_they returned to their Maker the moment it detonated. His is a twisted mind, but she could not imagine the _extent_ of it. Conceiving such a method to evade is brilliant and scary. He was caught because he wanted to be, according to commissioner James Gordon. Perhaps it's true that if the Joker is somewhere it's because he decided to. Could it also be true about Arkham? The mere thought gives her the creeps. Better to think that Gordon and the Bat flat out outsmarted him.  
It's odd to see him sulk in mugshots, makeup crumbling, the expression of a worn out clown who just called it a day. They didn't even wash his face before giving him a sign with a number that will always mark him as a dangerous element.  
_Better not see what's under the paint, right, commissioner? Might turn out to be a man like you.  
_Tailored suits. A questionable taste for colors. The rest is silence. No traceable name. No fingerprints in any database. Supposedly around thirty years old. And another string of fields with the same word: unknown, unknown, unknown.  
_You basically didn't exist one year ago. Where did you come from, Mr. J?  
_She'll have to proceed backwards to discover whence his lucid folly comes. It will be a long process and she won't be able to complete it in the short period she has before the trial. But she has time: the Joker won't be leaving Arkham any time soon.  
_What do you say, mad prisoner clown, like your new home? Isn't it neat? Isn't it sunny and cozy? It still gives me nightmares after all this time.  
_Will he resist? Harley doubts it. Such a man isn't accustomed to cages. Such a man needs to roam free in the amusement park that Gotham is for him. But his wishes don't matter. In a flash Harleen realizes that she'd rather die than set him free. Because she also has an amusement park she doesn't want to let go, and it's his mind.

After the third cig in a row Harleen Quinzel finds the resolve to test her newfound power. The sun is setting and in the Arkham Asylum park the cold has decided to show up in full force.  
Soon the night shift folks will be here. She doesn't want to go home yet. Three meetings: three meetings before the Joker starts telling his secrets. She imposed herself this schedule, and wants to pursue it immediately.  
_No fear. If you show yourself intimidated it's over.  
_The padded cells are in the new wing. They still smell of paint although the reconstruction has been done months ago, after everything blew up. Now there's little left of the original building Amadeus Arkham built enlarging his own mansion. Even heritage groups shed some tears.  
There are dozens of horror stories about the asylum and well predate the time Jonathan went cuckoo. In the almost two years spent there Harleen has come to be fully familiar with them all. Elizabeth Arkham. Constance Arkham, Mad Dog Hawkins. But she never met their ghosts, or heard their disembodied steps in the corridors. Still, she hates the night shift. Patients don't sleep, well, not all. Some whisper, others howl like hungry beasts. She wonders if at least he can sleep soundly. Extrapolating from the dossier data, he appears to have a manic personality. She would not find it surprising to discover that he needs no more than two, three hours of sleep per night. _Isn't it enough to drive one insane, J?  
_The guard looks at her perplexedly as she makes him open the cell. "Get out of there immediately should anything happen, doctor. I'll be ready".  
She nods distractedly. All fear is gone, replaced with frantic euphoria as she watches the form thrown into a corner and wrapped in the straightjacket.  
He regales her with an oblique glare, emerging from unruly locks, to give her once again the feeling of being trapped in a knot of barbed wire.  
"You're late, Harley-quin. It's bad form to leave a man waiting on your first date".  
Don't take the bite as long as he doesn't truly bite. If this is all he can offer it won't be hard. If only she could overcome the cold in her bones…  
She would like to clear her throat, but it would be a tiny wrong gesture. "Looks like you want to be an undisciplined little patient".  
More of that unflinching, bored, almost pitiful glare. The silent question is clear as day: _is this what you want to discuss, Harleen?  
_"I've been waiting for you, doctor. They sent me some lanky dandy, dark as coal, with too thin hands and a badly knotted tie. I just can't stand negligence in one's getup, Harley-quin. Speaking of which, I'd be grateful to have my shirt back. The one the management provides is uncomfortable and ill-cut".  
There's something beyond his trite phrases, beyond the levity of his speech. It's in his low distorted voice, bizarrely harmonious in its modulations. It stems from his belly, not only his throat. It's a vital organ of his body. She only has to determine whether the terror he causes in those who stand in his presence is purposeful or it just springs from him spontaneously.  
_But he's un-spontaneity incarnate. There's nothing beyond his mask.  
_She takes two steps in his direction. Not that he could attempt anything, tied as he is, but she can't help thinking of Connors' arm turned into mince meat.  
"Impossible, I'm afraid. As I'm going to take care of you, I'd rather not end in intensive care like my colleague. For now you could make my task easier by telling me your name: I can't keep just calling you Mr. J".  
His lips lose their frown. A smirk peeks out, once again leaving her with no defense.  
"Harley. Not like this. Now the shoddy script demands me to reply that you can give my any name. But it would be risky. You could choose for me something utterly trite, like Charlie or, worse still, Jack. Come closer".  
The usual pattern isn't working. He's the one holding the reins. And it's _wrong_.  
"Fine, Mr. J. As you wish".  
Murderer, terrorist, madman, criminal, sadist. All this and then some in that corner. She wonders what would happen should she free his hands. _Is there a point in what he does? Would there be one for my murder? Or maiming…What does he want? What are his current expectations?  
_She can think of only one: escaping from Arkham.  
She sits at his side trying to contain her excitement. She's taking chances. The guard outside would hear her and rush in quickly enough to save her. Maybe.  
"Starting tomorrow I'll be in sole control of your therapy, Mr. J. I'll oversee everything you do. I guess this is what you wanted? I'd like to know why".  
She doesn't look him in the eyes. She even tries to forget what's his face _like._  
"You'll bring me coffee, tuck my blankets, come with me in the shower, Harley?"  
His hair, then his forehead fall on her shoulder. Harleen sits rigid. If she runs away now, there'll be no way back.  
"Harley, bright Harley. There's a reason why I want you here. How many people told you? 'Probably he fancies you', 'Probably you stirred his sick fantasy', isn't it so, Harley? But you and I aren't like them. We're not so _lowly_. I'm looking for someone who can understand a joke without me having to explain it. Humor is such a rare commodity in this world. You have it. On your papers, at the registry office, on your person. Harlequin. Your name is enough to bring a smile on my face, can you see it?"  
Pamela. Joan. Dr Arkham. A choir of voices repeating phrases about the monster's crush.  
_I'm no Harlequin, Mr. J. I won't let you exploit me. You're very much mistaken. You're in my hands, Mr. J.  
_She'll ask him about the rose tomorrow. The thought that someone in Arkham is running his errands isn't a nice one to her. _Not a nice one…?  
_"Do you think you could trust me, Mr. J? Genuinely I mean. Because I'm the one who decides what's going to happen to you. In madness and sanity".  
A syncopated whisper. "I'm not mad. No. Just a step above their schemes and looking down on them from there. This is why I'm scary to them. Because I have everything they miss and crave for. Nothing to lose or want. But you're not afraid, are you, Harley? We'll be alone, Harley? Completely alone? Because I might feel like telling you things meant for your ears only. Secrets".  
Tiredness comes sudden. She wants to close her eyes, lean against the soft wall and sleep. She would wake up the morning after with his head still resting on her shoulder. _I've been waiting for you for more than a year. And here I am, exhausted at the end of the quest.  
_"You've been the first to talk about me in terms of mental illness, Harley-quin. Not nice. Well, it's nice of you to talk about me. Nice, yeah. Every now and then even a humble busker like myself enjoys feeling a star, know that? Every now and then. Okay, often. I enjoy being a star, Harley. But had you mentioned my artistic flair instead of pointing your widdle finger at my brain… which works perfectly, you know? Even too well for your limited perspective, my poor Harley".  
Harley resists the impulse to apologize. The old article a young intern penned about the supposed schizophrenia of Gotham's latest bank robber. Now everything's becoming clearer. He heard Arkham mention her. The rest was easy.  
_Fine then. I'm ready to play your game.  
_Repressed anger? A wish for revenge? For such a little thing? How much can his megalomania enlarge a single detail? Is this their mutual understanding is based on?  
_Are you eager to prove me you're not crazy, Mr. J?  
_That will have to be their starting point. Two columns on a minor medical review. A girl who wanted to find her 'ideal nutjob'. The nutjob now wants her around. She'll be able to discern why only surviving each and every meeting.  
"Harley-quin and her glasses and her serious stance and her scrub. All things Harley-quin does not need. I'll make you laugh, believe me. You'll laugh, laugh and laugh until you feel you're suffocating".  
Maybe. Maybe he shall. And it will be good. She can't wait for it. Anything to make things return as they were until a moment before. Fear, enthusiasm, desire: she can have them all back. He's still hers, who cares what motivations he's hiding. And the firm awareness that she had returns. She'd die rather than relinquish the hold she has on him. He'll have to hit, rend, annihilate her. He's not going to get rid of her any other way. Harleen giggles, taken by a pleasant rapture. Everything's okay. She knows Mr. J likes it: after all he's a simple guy.  
"Yes, we'll be alone. Completely alone".  
_  
Beautiful hands us no way lies a means of love_  
Men are so nice  
_On sounds and guard the stone, and bed had a law_  
He pleases me fine  
_Answers written and I reason_  
He pleases me fine  
_In the reign of sex, blown more than it's pleased to be_  
Fine, fine  
_He's a beauty affection_

(Cocteau Twins, _I wear your ring_)

----

**Note: **Here (remove all the spaces) **http: // sychophantwhore. deviantart. com/ art/ Joker- Arkham- You- and-me- Harley- 135148453** you can see sychophantwhore's interpetation of this chapter. Not a padded cell. A **filthy **one. I'm totally in love with Harley's expression.


	5. Thoughtful Pierrots

**AMOUR FOU V**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Interlude n°1  
"Thoughtful Pierrots"**

_It's my own design  
It's my own remorse  
Help me to decide  
Help me make the most  
Of freedom and of pleasure  
Nothing ever lasts forever  
Everybody wants to rule the world  
_  
(Tears for Fears, _Everybody wants to rule the world_)

All considered, the blasted city doesn't like sleeping. She tosses and turns, knowing that in the dark hours she'll be alone with her thoughts. She'll wait for sunrise and then another spin on the roundabout will begin. Light and darkness are a serpent eating its tail in Gotham. TV sets, buzzing phones or just a room as dark as a suffocating niche. Some would like to go home, others to flee.  
James Gordon's only wish is to lay his head on the desk and close his eyes briefly.  
_"I'm going boys, call me if anything new happens".  
_He's going to tell it very soon, before exhaustion swallows him fully. Then he'll spend the night thinking of Harvey Dent, and will feel dirty.  
Renee Montoya prides of doing her duty. She's just been transferred and her desire to make a good impression is clear. But he looks at her and sees Anna Ramirez, and knows he can't trust anyone any longer. Not even the blameless. So he lets her speak; he even listens. Yet he wonders where's the catch, because everyone is hiding something, right? Everyone's two faced. Even young Montoya, who told him that she always admired DA Dent, the greatest loss Gotham could ever suffer. And that she regrets not having been present when the Joker was captured.  
Him. _Always_ him. He sent the doctor who should have checked his head to the hospital. Just perfect. It seemed easy to predict that Jeremiah Arkham would have signed some well-crafted paper to send him somewhere away. It would have been the victory James Gordon wants. Sane. Lucid. In a maximum security prison. Because people do escape from Arkham, dammit. The police can't reach the already sentenced in Arkham. But no, the doyen shrink did nothing.  
"Harleen Quinzel" Montoya repeats.  
Young, ambitious, reckless. Already when she was assigned Jonathan Crane he thought the name ringed a bell, but couldn't quite say what it was about. How many Harleen Quinzel can walk this Earth and get stuck in a policeman's brain? But she's got no precedents. He'll have to dig deeper, something will turn up. The other doctors pointedly told Montoya that the Joker appeared to have a peculiar fancy for his new psychiatrist. Gordon doesn't approve of this in the least.  
"Here she is" Montoya announces without much enthusiasm turning the laptop in his direction.  
Young people and their insane way of getting anything out of computers… Harleen Quinzel. A fourth place at the national artistic gymnastics championships. Coming to Gotham State University with a scholarship for sporting achievements. Stuff from seven years ago. The girl was a local glory for some time. Doc's a former athlete, a tiny being librating on a beam in the only photo the article features. But this isn't the answer he wanted.  
_There's more to it…  
_No, going home is unthinkable. He has to find the missing detail. "Montoya, bring me everything we have archived about the Joker, from his first appearance on. And more coffee, if you please". Then he'll go have a chat with miss Quinzel herself. Some might frown, objecting that trying to influence the judgment of a professional doing her job is somewhat unethical, but mostly James Gordon finds it ironic. It surely beats treating a friend like a criminal, lying, lying, and lying some more.

Bruce Wayne mostly sleeps by day. He doesn't have much choice. For four hours after dawn he falls into a sort of catalepsy impossible to break. Well, not this morning. Along with gauze, disinfectant and a kit for self-stitching Alfred brought him a card from Lucius Fox from New Zealand. _"Rest and don't make anything rash until I come back. I wouldn't want to find Wayne Industries have filed for bankruptcy. Take care, L.F."_  
Until he's back. He had told him he needed time to think. Everyone was left mentally ravaged by the Joker business, Bruce most than anyone. He had believed that Lucius' vacation would last indefinitely, only to end in a spontaneous request to be allowed to retire. The idea that things won't go like that cheers his spirit.  
"Master Bruce, do you think we should add Mr. Fox to the list of guests for the Mardi Gras party?" Alfred tidies up the tray with the breakfast he just had. Ties. Hope. Confidence. Is he as alone as he thought during those hellish days? Maybe not. Maybe slightly less. The Joker was wrong. The Joker never knew. The Joker is alone. Truly, indeed, buried alive inside Arkham, and it's what he deserves. Although most assuredly he shall never notice the difference. This, and just this, stirs in Bruce Wayne a trace of pity for him.

Jeremiah Arkham's conscience starts stinging him at 7 AM, as he's driving the few miles between his city home and the asylum. It used to be easier. Living side by side with his patients and staff always made it easy to know what was best. But the asylum came close to turn him insane too, thus making an illusory return to a _normal_ life after work imperative. The bridge dividing the Narrows from the solid ground that's the heart of Gotham didn't separate him also from the rest of the world. He didn't want to identify with the island, the gloomy hill, the old intimidating mansion. He wanted to stop being Arkham Asylum. So he put everything in Jonathan Crane's hands: he's still expiating for that. The ghosts are always at his heels. Sometimes it's easy to put them in the backseat of his mind, other times they just won't let go and poke at him continuously repeating _beware beware beware _over and over again.  
"I'm sorry dr. Arkham, I made the most silly of mistakes". Here's Connors apologizing to him for having been mangled by that psychopath. This is beyond absurd. At Arkham reality is distorted. He's the one who should hold his balance, and there was only a way to do that after losing Connors: to give up, admitting defeat. But no, he did not, instead he threw Harleen Quinzel to the executioner. Jeremiah Arkham doesn't even remember well how that came to pass. It's always like that with Harleen. And she shouldn't even be there. There's something wrong with that woman: he understood that the first time he saw her the day she joined the asylum, on the wings of a recommendation he could not say no to, to finish her internship. It's the way she grins, the way she arches her brow. The expression of those who live in a dimension made of a single line to be followed right to the end, ignoring or stepping on whatever hurdle in between, for pure ambition or simple amusement. Harleen Quinzel isn't into cures, she's into symptoms. This explains why, when thanks to her efforts Crane was dismissed, she seemed nothing short of disappointed. It was game over. Arkham doesn't wonder about her intelligence or competence, but about the way she uses them. And someone who's not wholly well anchored in this world should not be thrown to the Joker.  
_But I did that, and now can only see what's about to happen. And pray she's right and nobody else gets hurt.  
_  
The sunny sky, a song in her heart. No one to watch and judge her. Harleen Quinzel doesn't mind living alone, dreaming for a not too distant future a delightful country cottage to share with the love of her life and their children. In her flat she can afford skipping between rooms out of joy and laughing by herself, losing for a few minutes, innocently, her mind.  
It's good to wake up in a good mood, putting a positive mark on the series of events about to fill the day. Where did the melancholy of last evening come from? She doesn't remember, and she does not care.  
Her makeup is fine, light and shiny. The hair also, composed and austere. No objections on the dress, sober and professional. But she wears more perfume than usual. The notes Arkham is expecting? Fine as well. Do they make sense? She wrote them at six AM, anxiously, worrying that she could miss some detail. Not that her dear patient loosened up considerably.  
_A bit hard when you're in a straightjacket…_ After a hysterical little laugh she finally resolves to restrain herself. _Try to be serious Harley, you're at work.  
_Scribbled down words which she'll have to turn into coherent text before handing them over. _"Evident signs of a scoliosis somewhat disregarded during childhood… Loss of hair… It could be prevented with a reinforcing cut. And dropping dying…"_ Harleen Quinzel re-reads quickly, holding the sheet in her left hand as she stands by the door, the keys already in the lock. _"A flood of twitches… They unsettle me… He leaned with his head on my shoulder… Is he looking for a substitute mother figure? This must be made clear…"  
_Harley looks at the sheet almost incredulous. Did such a load of poppycock really come from her brain? This is just too funny. May Mr. J never know about it. She's laughing again, resting her head against the door, letting the sheet fall to the ground. She laughs as if she were under laughing gas, until her facial muscles start to ache. Only the realization that her mascara is dripping off her eyes makes her stop.

_There's a room where the light won't find you  
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down  
When they do I'll be right behind you_

So glad we've almost made it  
So sad they had to fade it  
Everybody wants to rule the world  
  
(Tears for Fears, _Everybody wants to rule the world_)


	6. Killing me softly

**AMOUR FOU VI**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Therapy n°4:**

**"Killing me softly"**

_I got my head, but my head is unraveling  
Can't keep control, can't keep track of where it's traveling  
I got my heart but my heart is no good  
And you're the only one that's understood  
I come along but I don't know where you're taking me  
I shouldn't go but you're reaching back and shaking me  
Turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky  
The more I give to you, the more I die_

_And I want you_

(Nine Inch Nails, _The perfect drug_)

It's a day to mark on the calendar to be celebrated every year to Harleen Quinzel, the day she can appreciate it all, give a name to her own most peculiar pathology and realize she's in love.  
It was only waiting to happen after all. She never had any such fixation. Men: silly, frail, sometimes amusing. To be used and dropped. Now things are getting wacky and out of control.  
This momentous day Harleen Quinzel counts the minutes she has to suffer through before four PM strikes, and she'll be able to be with Mr. J again. To distract herself from her anxiety she subs for two colleagues in the morning shift. The guy who killed his wife as inspired by Thomas Jefferson asks her if the war is over and the Thai won; she answers positively to both questions while injecting his vitamins in his bicep.  
She stops fascinated to observe the patient in cell 241. The pyromaniac twists and turns strictly tied to his cot, shouting that he doesn't want to drown. Curiously the antidote created for Crane's toxin has no effect on him.  
Among that crooked crowd she feels at ease like a butterfly in a field. They're all so unique and peculiar, an inexhaustible hunting ground to explore fully the human mind. And now the rarest gem is hers. Where to start?  
Arkham chose to reserve therapy room 17 for her use. She isn't sure she likes it: the lights are too bright there, the patient might feel psychologically pressured. She will have to reassure him. No interferences. No one listening. Nobody watching. That's the deal. Part of her thinks she's being stupid: should he attack her the Joker would have all the time to tear her into pieces before the guards could come to her aid. But two other considerations overcome it and, illogical as they might be, Harleen decides to trust them. One is that the Joker would never hurt her. The other one, which almost cuts her breath, repeats obsessively _'it would be great…'_. To peek into his eyes as he does what he does best. Why should Connors have the privilege? She only has to keep a syringe with tranquillizer ready at hand and unload it in any part of his body before it's too late. A walk in the park.  
It's almost one AM. She isn't happy to be going to the mess hall. Arkham threatened to kick her out should she let trays fly again, but she forgot her lunch once again. _Because of you I'll starve to death, Mr. J_. Finally she caves in, after all lately Joan Leland has been keeping a sizeable distance from her: they're in no danger of fighting again.  
The red uniform doesn't suit Mr. J. Harleen Quinzel never understood why the choice fell on a color that drives patients mad. When she came to Arkham they wore grey, then someone came up with this bright idea. Now patients really look like convicts.  
The Joker's skin is fair, even without the monstrous makeup, and he appears sickly. He walks slightly hunched, as usual, but the posture still calls to her mind the image of a predator ready to pounce rather than someone meek and subdued.  
Morales leads him inside and lets go of his arm only when the guest of honor is sitting in front of her at the table that represents all the furniture in the room. Morales then checks the leather binds tying his wrists to see if they're well tight. He seems to be reluctant concerning leaving. Harleen uses these moments to reassure herself that the sedative is at hand in the scrub's right pocket. "The alarm, doctor", Morales tell her reminding her of the buttons under the table and behind her on the wall. "Call if anything happens".  
These words seem to amuse the patient and, for once, his laughter does nothing but irk her. She feels like telling him to shut up, but simply throws him an angry glare which does nothing but stimulate his hilarity.  
"It's all right Paulo, just leave us alone, if you please…"  
The man lingers on some more, then whispers a "call me" and walks to the door, turning back a couple of times before exiting.  
"What a meddlesome character, Harley-quin. Possibly under the impression I could take the syringe in your pocket and stab you in one eye with it. One wonders just how could such an idea take root in his mind…"  
Harleen's fingers automatically reach a button under the table. The Joker's grin tells her in no uncertain terms that he knows exactly what she's going to do and that he spotted her fears correctly. It's not the right moment to start sweating in panic.  
"How are you feeling today, Mr. J?" she asks, crossing her hands on the table. She's unarmed and sure of herself. It's the image she wants to project to him.  
"Very well, thank you. Although you have a problem with the hot water supply here. It's really annoying".  
He speaks moving his head around in swift abrupt motions, checking out every corner of the room. Apparently she's the least interesting thing to him.  
_A large, neurotic fly. That's what he looks like.  
_Harleen skims through the medical record, although she actually knows it by heart. The man is perfectly healthy, which is more than one could say about the medical staff who performed the checkup. He broke a finger of every one of them, but that was before Connors. Before things returned to order.  
"Do you know what my task is, Mr. J? I explained it to you yesterday, right?" She must be careful. There's no taking the luxury of treating like an idiot: he isn't, most _definitively_ he isn't.  
His gaze returns to her, sardonic and fiery. "Being interviewed by 'Gotham Tonight', Harley. Being seen across the country. Smiling politely to the bumbling replacement of the late lamented Mike Engel, whom I had the honor of helping to reach a higher plane of existence, hoping that he could make you his permanent adviser. Or take you out for dinner. And undergoing the TV make up "artists" treatment, to feel, for once, like a diva of the Thirties".  
_Lock him inside Blackgate and throw away the key.  
_"No, Mr. J." Harleen adjusts the glasses on her nose trying to look professional. "I'm here to determine what your fate will be, if you're going to spend the rest of your lifetime rotting away in a federal prison. I wish you could be cooperative".  
He throws his head back, rocking on the chair. Harleen wishes she could go back to the day before. She had thought he was looking favorably to their encounter. He had talked about secrets to confide her, yet now he's just looking bored by something he can't take with the required seriousness.  
"Mr. J…"  
"Well then, it won't take us much time Harley. I'm a good boy. It was bad influences that drove me astray. And the streets. The streets are really to blame. And women. The women ruined me. And Vietnam. I was decorated three times in Vietnam, but this country has no respect for war heroes".  
"Uh uh. Pity you weren't born at the time of the Vietnam war". She's tiring of this. Things aren't going well, and his perpetual snicker is starting to nauseate her. "Honestly I don't think we're going anywhere today. I wonder why you wanted me specifically if all you aimed for was being stubborn. I'm not here to play with you. I put Jonathan Crane's life back on tracks. You can't be a worse case. And let me tell you one thing: without your stage makeup you look to all the world a wholesome, innocent country boy. So, stop playing the Joker. Would some green dye make you feel more comfortable?"  
Her reluctant patient's face turns into a brave stab at an adorable smile. "Jonathan Crane. Talented kid. Pity he proved a one hit wonder".  
Harleen inhales deeply. No way she's starting a discussion with him. It would be pointless, and the dumb thing to do, and even an amateur would not fall for that trick.  
"Know what would really make me feel comfortable? You to stop telling me about your ex's. And seeing you in Harlequin garb. Could you do it for me, my tender pumpkin pie?"  
"Forget it, my dear megalomaniac puddin'".  
_What. The hell. Did I. Say?  
_For a moment Harley wants to disappear. Then she notices the gaze of her dear, recalcitrant patient alight with honest, menacing joy.  
"Here. This is the Harley-quin I like. A discreet straight man. And now, pray tell me, Harley-quin, did you keep your word? Are we alone? No one's listening? Are we still under professional secret?"  
_Pumpkin pie? Puddin'?  
_"Yes Mr. J, don't worry. There's nobody else here". _Thakfully. _Good thing there were no witnesses to that exchange of pet names.  
"So…" Mr. J lunges for her. Some alarm in her head tries to warn her that this is dangerous behavior, but Harleen refuses to heed its call. "If I were to hurt you no one would come t your help, is that so?"  
It takes a second. The chair she's sitting on is slammed back by her assailant's weight. Her head hits violently the floor and, before she can regain her wits, she feels his hands close on her throat.  
"I like people who are true to their word. Are you true to your word?"  
Slowly his fingers start to pressure her windpipe. She isn't quick enough to grab the sedative. By instincts she grabs his wrists. It hurts. Soon she'll start to thrash for the lack of air. Just a moment. But the moment does not come. That pain could go on forever. He _knows_ how to make it last forever, losing his grip for the split interval long enough to keep her awake and not choke to death. He's never been so close to her. She wishes that her eyes were dry, longs to tell him that she thinks he's fabulous. Perfect. Splendid. A masterpiece she'd never dare ruin. She feels her lips curl into a grin.  
_Do it. Crush me. It does not matter. I've already had what I always longed for. You.  
_But he isn't smiling anymore. He looks surprised and disappointed. Harleen feels his fingers loosen their grip; instinctively she pushes him away and starts to cough as her lungs hurry to take the amount of oxygen she needs in. Then she sees Morales and two other nurses. And Arkham himself. And Mr. J is down, Morales beats him up while the other two try to tie him. Arkham asks her about her state. And she puts the pieces together. Morales drives a jab across her patient, her _would-be killer_'s face. Yet all through this he found his trademark mocking grin again.  
"Didn't I tell you we were not alone, Harley?"  
_I didn't know. Forgive me, forgive me Mr. J. I didn't know…  
_"Are you able to stand, Quinzel?" Arkham asks.  
She shots him a rancorous glance. He ruined everything. Made her unwittingly lie to Mr. J. Above this, he didn't keep his word.  
"Take him downstairs and shoot him with tranquillizers" Arkham commands. "I don't want to glimpse his repulsive features outside his cell again".  
Harleen stands up grasping the table and refusing his help. "Wait". Speech is painful, but she has to prevent anyone else from touching him. "I'll do it. Wait…"  
"Don't be foolish Quinzel, you can't possibly…"  
"Doctor Arkham" she wheezes out while her beautiful lunatic is being carried away. "Do you realize what you did to me? The Joker knew you were watching us and stages this demonstration. I could have die here. All because you don't trust me". Such a tirade could have her lose her job if she didn't knew that Arkham felt responsible for the accident.  
"Quinzel, what you're doing is too dangerous, I can't allow it to go on…"  
"Sure you can. So says the paper we signed yesterday. Carte. Blanche. Starting tomorrow, I'll meet my patient in my office, far from microphones and hidden cameras. You had those also, right?" She then tries to be more diplomatic. "Please, doctor. Should he notice any more meddling, that man would hurt me for real. I need to gain his full trust. Please help me. Don't act behind my back again. Not when I'm putting my life on the line".  
The old timer listens to her attentively, but his gaze remains gloomy. "Quinzel… once this story's over, I want your resignation on my desk. You'll have every reference you might possibly wish for, but I want you out of my asylum. This is not the right place for you. It has too much of an influence on you. Once you set the Joker's head straight, I won't want to see you around here again, Harleen. Now go drug your toy, if you really have to".  
Sure. Leaving Arkham. The old man has yet to realize the way things are. _As Mr. J would say, I'm somewhere because I want to. And I decide when to move over.  
_Her toy. How wrong can one be. He's not that anymore, since a few minutes ago: now everything's changed. He took her breath. Almost made her heart explode. But he relented. Because she surprised him, although she doesn't know how. Or maybe she does. _I wanted you to do it. And this took you off guard. Isn't it wonderful, Mr. J? Is this the first time someone wants to cry you that she loves you as you're taking her life? I'll tell you as much every time you'll want to hear it. If you're a toy to me, let me be the same to you.  
_Her head spins while she's going down. Later. Later. There will be time. Later she'll think about the absurdity of her feelings. Later she'll mull over the fact that she concretely risked to die, and maybe she'll find the idea of being in love laughable. Not now. Now she only wants to walk a yard above the ground.

Blood everywhere, Joan told her. But now everything's in order. He's back to his own place, behind the transparent barrier that soon shall fall to insulate him from the rest of the world, strictly tied to a chair. Morales and the two nurses fret around him nervously, but he doesn't seem to be keen to react. Still, he's not at ease. Harleen perceives his restlessness and the frantic movements of his eyes exude dangerous ire.  
_None of you dared pierce his skin, right? None of you dared treat him like a rabid beast, right?  
_She stalks into the cell interrupting whatever activity they're doing. A nurse is still holding a syringe.  
"Doctor…"  
"Step aside. I'll take care of it. Wait outside".  
The three men pause, but know the Joker is her own territory. That she has the last word. So they step back, leaving them alone and watching from some distance. Her head throbs for the blow it took. She knows she should have it checked. And her throat still hurts. Kind gifts from her patient, who's still eyeing her with suspicion.  
"I didn't know" she whispers to him while running a cotton wad imbibed with alcohol inside his left arm. "I didn't know they were watching us. Please, believe me". For a moment she wonders what exactly she's doing. Cowering at the feet of the man who just tried to kill her, apologizing, makes absolutely no sense. _Nothing_ makes sense in this. She wants to see his mad grin, wants to hear his distorted laughter again. She doesn't want the Joker, the clown, the loquacious funnyman of crime to disappear from her sight.  
"Poor Harley… Poor, poor Harley… Harley…"  
He whispers like this over and over, without taking his gaze off her. But as Harleen moves the needle close to his vein she sees him shake his head slightly. With _such _a knowing glance. It's an explicit request. She hesitates, unable to resolve to pierce his arm.  
_You can't. He's dangerous. He _must _be sedated. You can't do such a thing and go home as if nothing happened.  
_She tries to envision the possible consequences should anyone approach him in his supposed slumbering state. '_Blood everywhere_'. He's waiting for her answer. And Harleen realizes that in truth she doesn't care. It seems it was a century ago that she felt his fingers around her throat and feels like she has died and has been reborn. Should she betray him now, they won't have anything to tell each other tomorrow, and the thought ties her stomach into a knot.  
_Your wish is my command, Mr. J.  
_The needle finds the leather strap, pierces it and lets pour forth the yellowish liquid, which won't send anyone to sleep.  
"How long for it to have an effect?" Mr. J asks, still refusing to offer her his best smile.  
"Less than a minute".  
_Curtain's up, big star._ She frees him from the straps, then helps him stand, although she knows he doesn't really need it.  
He lets himself fall on the cot. "See you tomorrow, Harley-quin" he says, closing his eyes.  
Were she alone she'd gift him a special ending: she'd take his hair off his face, kissing him on the forehead, then would whisper in his ear "good night sweet prince". But she's not alone, so she retrieves the empty syringe and the purse with the sedative vials, checks that she left nothing behind that could be turned into a weapon and finally inserts the magnetic card that seals the Joker inside his prison.  
"He'll behave until tomorrow" Morales remarks.  
She's not so sure. She wants to order him not to enter the cell whatever the case, but doesn't know how to justify such a request.  
_Hazard? I did something for you. Now return the favor and don't create a mess that would have me fired or in jail, puddin'…  
_She makes a brief stop to apologize with Arkham and ask him to be free the following morning. It's caution. A façade of humility. A professional attitude. These are the things she needs in order that no one would know.  
"Show me your head, Quinzel" the old man says, moved. She lets his fingers run through her hair and hears his order that she have an x-ray as soon as possible. Harleen doesn't intend to.  
_What good would that do? I think I already lost my head for good, doc.  
_  
_You make me hard, when I'm all soft inside  
I see the truth, when I'm all stupid eyed  
The arrow goes straight through my heart  
Without you everything just falls apart _

_My blood wants to say hello to you  
My feelings want to get inside of you  
My soul is so afraid to realize  
Every little word is a lack of me_

(Nine Inch Nails, _The perfect drug_)


	7. Melancholy female silhouette

**AMOUR FOU VII**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Therapy n°5:**

**"Melancholy female silhouette"**

_Consider green lakes  
And the idiocy of clocks  
Someone shot nostalgia in the back  
Someone shot our innocence_

A broken arrow in a bloody pool  
The wound in the face  
Of midnight proposals  
Someone shot nostalgia in the back  
Someone shot our innocence

In the shadow of his smile

(Bauhaus, _Who killed Mr. Moonlight?_)

This hazy morning Harleen Quinzel's thoughts are obscured and her head hurts. Right above her nape a bluish swelling made her combing a nightmare. A red scarf hides the bruises on her neck. A clear reproduction of his fingers. She slept badly and woke up worse, after an evening of complete apathy. She wanted to discharge tension at the gym this morning, before noticing that her world was swimming around her.  
The Gotham zoo is almost deserted in the morning. The bizarre calls of caged animals keep her company while she eats a hot dog and thinks about herself. Gibbons scream, a trumpeting, wings fluttering… and the hyenas. She has been watching them for twenty minutes. Two cubs were born and no one paid attention to them, because of a newborn polar bear. They're so small and cute as mother hyena watches them closely as they playfully fight. Maybe she should get a dog to greet her when she returns home.  
She has no plans for the morning: her only aim is to clear her mind. She wishes Pamela was there, to unwind with her, telling her what happened. But right now Pamela is locked inside a lab, fertilizing geraniums. She sent her a message, hoping the other woman will remember to turn the cell phone on, inviting her to come call her tonight. She needs a friend by her side to avoid going totally crazy. Because the events of yesterday have been unreal.  
_I can't really have thought that stuff. It's madness. Makes no sense at all.  
_The freak show escapee proved to her that he could kill her at any time in an instant, and all she felt was that she wished that instant to last forever. What did she see in his disfigured face to make her want to be his to her last cell? Harleen can't remember, and doesn't wish to repeat the experience. To hell with her book, even. She'll complete her survey and be one with the Joker definitively. She can't fixate on the idea of being truly in love with him. It would be masochism, and she's not like that. She must think about herself, her life, her future. She can't put everything at risk and be dragged in that folly. She's always made it, somehow, even when things in her life were taking a disastrous turn. Maybe that's how she's expiating?  
_Not true_, she keeps telling herself. She can't possibly have wanted to caress his wounded face, can't have felt the instinct to stand between his body and Morales' blows, can't really have only pretended to sedate him. Not that. Maybe she only dreamed about it. The news didn't mention trouble at the asylum, so she surely shot him with the dang sedative. Yes, surely it's what happened. Everything else probably was caused by the blow her head took. Every other explanation is absurd.  
_A repulsing homicidal maniac without inhibiting instincts… I must not lose sight of this side of the problem_.  
The next time she'll meet him she'll be firmly in control. _One learns from her mistakes, Harley. And his pitfalls are quite childish.  
_She closes her eyes as she thinks to be hearing his taunting voice echo in her mind asking her: "_Pitfalls, what are you talking about? I didn't do it, Harley Quinn_".  
She's almost grateful to hear the phone ring. Talking with someone more real than a sick fantasy will do her good.  
The displayed number is unknown to her but a manly voice immediately introduces itself as belonging to Carl Wayland, of legal firm Hyden, Jones, Thompson & Wayland. What it took to remind her of what she was doing and why. A psychiatric survey requires no empathy. One has only to string some data together. She'll think about the aftermath later.  
"I called your office and was told you had the morning off. I hope you won't mind me getting your cell phone number. I need to talk to you with some urgency, before the preliminary audience next Wednesday".  
_This soon? Are they expecting miracles?  
_Bottom line, they all can't wait to know what will happen to the Joker. Less than a week to decide. Too many things changed in the last few hours. Getting rid of him would be a relief, and yet…  
"I thought I had more time" she replies sullenly. Her eyes follow two purple clad figures. Their hair are a shade of green more brilliant than the original. One of them turns to face her, gifting her with a scarlet smile on his pallid face.  
_So we've come to this? Teenagers ape him and the police says nothing. Well, everyone can dress as they please…  
_"I know, doctor, but we did our best to shorten the procedure. Now, if suits you, I'd like to know when could we meet. It's also likely that the vice-attorney will want to talk to you".  
The boy in purple hints at a bow then, with the dexterity of a magician, extracts a card from a pocket of his jacket and launches in on her lap. Then he walks away circling with an arm the other Joker's shoulders; the latter's svelte frame makes Harleen realize it was a girl.  
"If you're in such a hurry we could meet at lunch. I'm back to work at three".  
The lawyer hesitates. He may do as he pleases. She knows perfectly that the Joker is what they all would call a madman. It's an easily assigned label to anyone who bends the rules, knowingly or not. She picks up the card the clown threw her. It is, what else?, a joker.  
_Soon the cages will be for the supposedly normal folks.  
_"Fine… fine, doctor. Could you be at one in Baker street, at 'da Pietro'?"  
_And just where would I be then?  
_"No problem. See you there".

Harleen Quinzel realizes she's starving only after entering the restaurant and being assailed by the scent of spaghetti with ragout and roasted meat with white wine. A single serving and she'll feel heavy for the next three months, but she decides to roll with it and intensify her gym workouts.  
Wayland is a curly headed, open faced guy. They're more or less of the same age. It's amazing that he's already partner in a legal firm of such renown. The successful youth, Gotham's future… _And a terrorist with his face painted among us. Oh sure, our generation just won't be held back.  
_The lawyer's handshake is firm but cold. She doesn't like him. Instinctively she takes him off a list of perspective fiancées, despite his winning smile. Only when tackling some baked potatoes after twenty minutes of pointless prattle they finally touch the Joker topic.  
"As you might have guessed, doctor Quinzel, we're hoping for a declaration of insanity. The way things went it looks obvious to us that our client lives in a world of his own, which makes him refractory to any attempt at a reintroduction into society without intense psychiatric care. Which means that either the judge listens to us, or the character known as the Joker is bound to serve more life sentences than one could count on two hands. To prevent this, I need a declaration from you. Would it be possible to know what impression you formed about my client?"  
_His client…  
_"Who's really paying you, mister Wayland? I doubt the Joker himself hired you, seeing as you ignore even his name, like everyone else".  
They have talked. What could possibly have Mr. J said to him? 'OK, sweetcheeks, from now on you're my lawyer'? Unlikely.  
Wayland now looks like someone who knows something. "Can't say, doctor. We were contacted by someone who wishes to remain in the shadows".  
She doesn't like this one bit. Who could be interested in letting loose someone who within a few months made Gotham into a slaughterhouse?  
"The mystery man…" she replies sarcastically. Some big time mobster, probably, although such secrecy is extravagant. "So what's the point of this meeting? Handing me a wad from your boss to declare that the Joker is crazy and should be locked up in an asylum? It's not necessary. He is crazy. And dangerous". She takes her scarf off to show him her neck. "This is his handiwork. After calling me 'pumpkin pie'".  
Wayland chuckles, then with a cough is back into all business mode, realizing that's nothing to laugh about. "I'm sorry. Must have been a bad experience… But rest assured, I'm not here to bribe you. It's not in our employer's style. She's too classy to stoop to such little ways".  
_She?  
_"I see" Harleen states. "What then?"  
"Then, as soon as you've determined the final outcome of the review I'd like you to relate it to me. Before anyone else, I mean. I wish to find a way to make everyone happy. I don't want a plea bargain, but from what you told me that won't be necessary. I'll have to contact you often in the coming days, for which I apologize in advance".  
She pictures them together, Wayland and the Joker. Mr. J ordering him to have a rose delivered to her. She only wants to know if the billet was of his own writing. Has this lawyer been so imprudent as having given him a pen?  
"Did I get it right, you're being paid by a woman? And who is she, Joker's mommy?"  
"Or a secret, millionaire wife for what I know. I told you, doc, I can't tell you who she is".  
_Right._  
A woman without name but with plenty money pays legal assistance for a man without name who only has a plenty of sharp blades. Wayland's jokes about supposed wives and such don't make her laugh.  
"Who would be crazy enough to marry such a guy?" she whispers toying with the rosemary.  
"Indeed".  
_Indeed what?  
_"May I ask you what you and the Joker talked about when you met at Arkham?" She has to know. She isn't at all sure that he's not just playing the madman angle.  
_And you could also tell me the name of the filthy harlot who's paying you. She's practically trying to buy Mr. J. Who knows what sordid tie they have.  
_Wayland shakes his head slowly. "Not much really. I was there with my assistant. He just told me how he got his scars. I can't think of it without feeling sick" he says frowning.  
Splendid. He opened his heart to his lawyers. With her, instead, he chose the rough treatment. They'll have to have a talk, this afternoon. He can't treat her like that. She's a professional, and takes matters very seriously.  
"He had a rough life. I'm not surprised that his brain is the way it is. That aside, he told us to do as we saw fit. He also stated that he could leave either Arkham or Blackgate whenever he wanted to, so our efforts were redundant. And to bring his respects to the lady who's footing the bill".  
_The bastard.  
_"I don't think we'll have to take him to the courtroom. It will be judge McLean's call. Anyway, I'll keep you up to date".  
Wayland probably offered further information, but she's not listening. She doesn't feel well at all. Her gastric juices are on a rampage and not because of the wonderful lunch. This luxury lawyer is really naïve. Probably the Joker and his sweetheart, whoever she is, are playing with them all. With her more than anyone else.  
_Who is she, Mr. J? Why is she interested in you?  
_She would like to be able to check the income tax of the entire female population of Gotham and find the one in question among the ladies who could afford a fancy firm.  
_Idiot. Probably she's just the patsy of some mobster.  
_She'd rather think it's like that. She wants to think she's the only one who cares for Mr. J. The only woman in his life. She accepts an espresso to end the meal. Maybe it will clear her mind… and send away the stomach pain.

_I want to go home_, is all Harleen Quinzel can think.  
Her patient is let into the ambulatory. Same old story: straps, sedatives, suggestions, anxious looks. A tiresome script. And now, finally alone, she doesn't know what to do with him, his endless fretting, his fixed smile. But a second is all it takes her to realize she's not afraid. The memory of yesterday has faded, leaving only a sensation of having brushed something extraordinary. Where is it now? In his mobile hands, apparently eager to be set free from the leather keeping them together? Or in his twisted mind?  
_What am I supposed to do with you, Mr. J? And what do you want to do of me?  
_"Good morning, Harley Quinn. I've been a real angel, wasn't I? You didn't pierce me and I paid you back not turning the place into a churrascaria. Wasn't it great? This makes us best friends, correct? Come here, gimme a hug".  
_I did not do that. I sedated you. So, stop this now.  
_Less than a week: too short as time to lose it completely. She really shouldn't be worried.  
"I spoke with your lawyer today. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for Wednesday morning, so I'm quite in a hurry. For starters, you could take a seat and answer a few simple questions".  
He laughs. Well, what else? Trite.  
"Simple questions? Let's see… Yes, I like children. Crying. No, I never had problems with women. All it takes to conquer one is having her find a rose in her study and… I'll sit alright if you sit with me, butter ball".  
No, this won't do. She must extract some information about him. She can't let herself be dragged in such a rambling joust.  
"Sit down, or I'll have you tied" she menaces, almost growling.  
This is apparently incredibly amusing to him. Then something inside him changes and all of a sudden he's looking at her with unexpected seriousness. That look makes her uneasy, but she refuses to look impressed.  
"Your neck just looks like it was made to fit my hands, Harley" he whispers as if he just discovered something extraordinary. "But why aren't you afraid? I was only joking, you know? It was a joke. Just a joke. Not even a good one. But what was that quaint look? What's wrong with you? You're not normal, you know?"  
Harleen looks at him incredulously and for a moment thinks she heard him wrong. She didn't: the Joker is really awaiting her reply, but she can only burst into laughter.  
"What's wrong with _me_? The Joker swears _I_ am not normal. This is really priceless".  
Clearly she's got the advantage. He looks almost incensed. Maybe the time has come to close on him.  
"How do you define normalcy, Mr. J? What you did until yesterday was _normal_? According to what ethical system?"  
Seeing his smile return is almost comforting. "Ethics? Are you a priest or a shrink, Harley? Nope, nothing I do is ethical. Every single thing I do is extraordinary. I already told you that. I'm the unexpressed dream of the average common guy. Which side are you on, Harley?"  
"My side" she curtly replies. Quack philosophy for a massive ego. Nothing new. "Apparently you don't like being questioned, Mr. J. But we don't have much choice, unless you want to spontaneously tell me something specifically".  
"You really don't have a clue about getting a conversation on, do you, my cookie? I did promise you a big fat secret. I haven't forgotten, you know?"  
As if suddenly tired, Mr. J lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. So apparently helpless, he looks lethal to Harleen.  
"But as we decided to trusty each other I also wish you would tell me one of your secrets. Something you'd never tell anyone. Then I'll tell you anything you want".  
_For real?  
_A gunshot. Harleen's eyes close. She should not think about it. Secrets. What's safer than a madman's mind to hold them? But not that one. That one must be buried.  
"Deal. To get into the psychiatry department I blackmailed the dean. Are you satisfied?"  
She's going to pay for this sooner or later. There are things that just shouldn't be confessed openly. Ever.  
The Joker throws at her a quite disappointed glance. "If this wasn't so banal, I'd find it pathetic. I expected better of you". Then he breaks into humming, without taking his eyes off her. "Ok, that will do. I'll do an effort and pretend I found it funny".  
It's really a bad day if even he can spoil her mood. She's getting nowhere.  
"What should I do with you?" she asks, not really expecting him to know. She knows full well _what_ she should do. A signature and nothing more.  
"Do you think you could heal me, Harley?"  
Harleen moves her chair back as he gets up and stands in front of her, hands on the desk. _And now?_ On the desk lie a paper cutter, a few pens, all potential weapons she stupidly left within his grasp.  
"Heal me? And from what? And to make me into what?"  
Leaning over her, he waits for her answer. Healing him. That's truly madness. And losing him, absorbed into the shapeless crowd. It's sacrilege even to think about it. "No. I like what you are now. I only want to understand you. I want…"  
_I want to feel what you feel.  
_Feeling his tied hands on her face she inhales deeply. Apparently she always returns to square one. She wishes someone could point her the way out. It wasn't a moment of weakness. She's falling. She fell already. She's agonizing at the bottom.  
_My clown.  
_Some tensing in her cheeks forces her to relax her lips.  
"Keep your smile, Harley. There's truly nothing else to do in this crazy world".  
His eyes are sad. It's odd that she should only notice now. His eyes can't smile. This is his drama. No knife shall ever render them different.  
"How did you get those scars?" she asks, leaving all considerations of prudence behind.  
But Mr. J relinquishes his hold on her face while apparently weighing something important. There are really no doubts: every movement he makes is reflective of a disturbed mind. So why can't she think of him as just another _patient_?  
"Do they scare you, Harley? Then why can't anyone ever stop looking at them? It's maniacal. You want to know how… No, I don't think I want to share that with you".  
So he trusts his lawyer more than her. Wonderful, she'll make a note of it. She gazes into his face like she had to imprint his features in her mind. Everything notwithstanding he looks tired, as if his appearance mirrored a waning spirit.  
"What happened to the barber? Shouldn't he have come yesterday?"  
The shadow on his cheeks makes the indelible signs of his past stand out even more. Harleen thinks it sad and unfair. He, instead, seems to find a new topic to laugh about.  
"Should I place myself in the hands of who knows who? No way. Bugger could just disfigure me".  
In spite of herself Harley has to laugh again. Such perpetual losses of control will be her ruin, she knows, but she can't help herself.  
"Give me a razor and I'll do it myself" he says, regaling her with another oblique glance.  
_Sure. Then the party can really begin.  
_"You know, my coworkers bet on how many times you and I will meet before you kill me…" They told her as much, merrily, as if that was nothing, after feinting sympathy for the aggression she endured.  
"Interesting. And you, how many sessions do you think you can last, Harley Quinn?"  
_Good God, I want to kiss him…  
_She realizes a major nervous breakdown is on the way for her. She has to make him leave before she bursts into tears in front of him. She doesn't know how he could react, nor she wants to discover it. His strange wincing… Is he mocking her unhappy expression? If that were the case, she'd never forgive him. Unless he hugged her in a painfully crushing embrace.  
_Then… Then you could also tear me into pieces…  
_"You let your hair down, Harley Quinn. I like it. But you must put a smile on your soft face. Your mood swings worry me. Can I tell you something to brighten your day? Do you want to know a secret so big, you could blow up Gotham like a massive multicolored flare with it?"  
Harleen swallows her need to wallow in misery. Does he really wish to share something with her? It's wonderful. As wonderful as him.  
"Yes" she replies assertively. Isn't this a way to become part of him?  
"Splendid, Harley. Let's discuss Harvey Dent, then. Care to hear the truth about the Gotham Knight in Shiny Armor's last hours?"

Ricky Thomas called Harleen Quinzel a brainless daredevil when she started vaulting dangerously and without any caution on the beam without an adequate warm-up.  
"You risk tearing a muscle. Or breaking some bones. The gym won't cover up the expenses, you hear me?"  
She ignored him: too much tension to release. Anything to get Harvey Dent out of her mind. Alas, no such luck.  
She returned home, left her groceries on the table and, without so much as showering, turned on the computer. A hour browsing the net didn't disprove what he told her in the least. Worse, she's realizing that the timeline of the district attorney's demise fed the press is literally full of holes.  
"They tell you lies to keep you behaved, Harley. Dent is the strawberry lollipop hiding the bitter pill they want to force-fed you because they think you too dense to live in a world without Santa. Who cares if the jolly old gentleman is left to rot stuck in the chimney. You're good kids and deserve a gift. Here's a heroic puppet you can place on your pillow as you go to bed. Here's an inspirational fellow. Harvey Dent, manufactured according to the law. Handle with care. Do not pierce or burn, even after usage".  
His voice thunders in her brain, so rambling and frenetic. It's all so horrid and easy to believe. Why did he tell her? And what is he expecting from her now?  
_Maybe… Maybe being bored to death was better…  
_Gotham, as fake as her heroes. One might just as well paint his face white and lie openly while stating the truth: that maybe they all really deserve to die, herself first.  
_Only you would stand still, Mr. J. Triumphing over a city of ruins. You who understood Gotham's true nature and deride her and stab her back.  
_They locked him up because he's better than them, nothing else. They locked him up because they'd rather turn away their eyes and believe their own tales. Now they want her to declare him insane, and make him like them. Now she knows why: their fear isn't legitimate. It's rotten. Scary. Gotham is a huge asylum. Black-winged vigilantes claiming to be murders. Knights in shiny armor flipping coins to decide between life and death. And the police just plays along.  
_What about me? Am I going to play the game? Will he be cold, down there in the hole? It's freezing there.  
_She feels childish because of such absurd spurts of tenderness amidst such suffocating angst. But there's little she could do now except for desperately lying to herself as anyone breathing such unhealthy air should. Is there a way out? It shouldn't have happened. Not to her.  
_Why did you choose me to spring your trap, Mr. J? Tell me, and I will forever be your Harlequin.  
_The doorbell wakes her up abruptly. For how long has she been looking at the screen without seeing it? Quite a bit, her flowery screensaver tells her.  
_And now? _At the door someone's being persistent. She doesn't know who could it be. _Just go and see, silly…  
_Pamela Isley has a new haircut, a potted plant in hand and a seriously scared look.  
"Are you well my dear? I came as fast as I could!"  
_What?  
_No, she's not feeling well. But Pamela can't possibly know that. Then she remembers about the message she sent her this morning. And she's there. Red is always there for her. She wants to tell her that nothing serious happened, but her nerves choose this moment to crumble. She finds herself hugging her friend and weeping on her shoulder. She hears her mumble something about crushed peonies, then she lets herself be led in. Everything is confused except for her burning eyes, some pain in her chest and Pamela hugging her. Asked about the welts on her neck Harleen just tells her. She tells her everything without hiding a thing and hears Pam repeat "The bastard… that damned sicko…", so she dries her eyes and asks her not to say so, that it's her fault and Mr. J…  
"I'm in trouble, Red. Whenever I'm with him I lose my head. And when I'm not I can only think of him. I'm sick, Pam. I can't have been looking for him all my life. It makes no sense. It doesn't, right?"  
"No, it doesn't". Pamela looks furious now, as she leaves her alone on the couch.  
Harleen wants to ask her to be back. Pamela is so comforting. Perhaps because she's so much taller than her, she makes her feel as if she were a baby needing affection.  
"It doesn't" she repeats entering the kitchen. "I'll make you herb tea, pup. You'll drink it all and then we can have a little serious talk".  
_Herb tea?  
_She hears her friend bustle with stove and kettle. Being tended to feels nice, although Pamela makes her feel as if she got the flu.  
"What the hell… Harley, what are you supposed to do with shaving foam and four sorts of aftershave?" Pamela's voice is angry and her face even more so as she returns to the living room and shoots her a seething glance.  
"I went shopping" Harleen defends herself. "I forgot to put the stuff away" she attempts with a grin, but Pam does not look to be softened.  
"Tell me that it's not for… for Mr. Imbecile. What's wrong with you, Harley? You're clever and capable. You can't _really_ have a crush on that monster. Where's the wise friend who just a week ago was lecturing me? Guess what? You were right. On everything. And now? You break on me tearfully that you're in love with the Joker! The _Joker_, dammit!"  
"Don't shout…"  
When she's like this Pamela really scares her. Harley curls on the sofa. Did she perhaps say that she broke up with Jason Woodrue? Did she, or was it just an impression? Completely swapping roles in so little time is farcical.  
_What am I supposed to do now? How do I get out of it?  
_Pamela can scream herself hoarse and get into a rage, Harleen knows she understands her after all. Logic, reason, sense disappear before stomach cramps, the wish to touch someone, grab him, sink your nails into his flesh so that he won't go away. And she calls him a monster. So many do call him a monster. So why should he restrain from squashing them all? None of them ever asked him anything. Yet she knows there has to be a knot to be loosened inside him, screaming, and she's the only one with the means to listen to it.  
_It shall hurt me, I know that. But without him I'd feel worse.  
_Is it worth risking so much? And for what? He'll never leave Arkham. And she'll go on talking to him day after day, until the end. Not what she'd dreamed about. But it's somewhat poetic, after all.  
_To wall myself alive with you… Until you'll decide you had enough. But I won't let that day come.  
_She spends the subsequent minutes watching her hands, until Pamela hands her a steaming cup. The herbal smell makes her nose wrinkle.  
"What's this? This vile stuff is yours, right?"  
Pamela sits by her side. "Don't be a baby, just drink it. I brought you a small supply of it from home. Have it for ten mornings straight. If you love me, do. You'll feel better afterwards. I'm giving you a gift".  
The concoction is bitter and nausea-inducing. Harleen has to fight it back to down half the liquid. She should ask Pamela about Woodrue - that's what a true friend would do. Maybe tomorrow, if she'll sleep in her home.  
"Harleen, we have to take a trip, you and me. Take a vacation. We shall leave as soon as possible. Let's get away. Let's forget about horrible men for a while, be it my scumbag boss or your hideous slaughterer. Let's get away from everything".  
"Don't call him that" Harleen scolds her.  
Leaving? That would be easy. If only she could really do that.  
"Harley, you can't…" Pam offers her a disgusted frown. "I can't even think about it. You're so cute, and he… No, no, I can't bring myself to even say that. Tell me nothing happened. Tell me you didn't even _kiss_ him".  
She should stop the pantomime. It's getting to her nerves. "Not yet" she replies.  
Pamela is making things worse. Now she's reinforcing in her the determination to protect him, to defend him from those who simply can't hope to understand how extraordinary he is.  
_How many other men would immediately realize you have a new haircut, Pam?  
_She sees her pass her hand on her brow, as if about to give up, but Harleen knows too well that it's not the case.  
"Does he know? Because if he does, you're in trouble. He could well have prepared everything artfully. Maybe he hopes to use you as an instrument to his evasion, did you consider that? Harley, do you realize what that guy did?"  
_Of course I do…  
_Harvey Dent's reassuring grin, his wholesome clean looks…  
_Who are we to judge him, Red? Which one of us is without sin?  
_The finger's on the trigger. She entreats "We can set everything right". And the shot…  
_He chose me because I'm like him.  
_Identical. Self-centered. Cruel. Yet she still feels the need to keep her pretension of innocence up. Mr. J is free, instead. Free in spite of the solid walls around him.  
"I must keep my smile, Pam. There's truly nothing else to do in this crazy world".  
Pamela shakes her head, unable to understand. She tells her some strange things, that she needs to go out with someone, that she hasn't had a date in too long a time. She nods. Maybe it's a good idea. Maybe she should only remind herself that there's a whole wide world beside the Arkham Asylum.  
"I could call Jonathan. And ask him to bring a friend along for you…"  
"Harley…" Lecturing again. But she's sure she didn't do anything wrong this time. "Don't you have the number of someone that's not a psycho memorized in your cell phone?"  
The answer is simple: she does, but tends to ignore them. She can't even say she has real friends except for Pamela. When did she stop looking at the outside world? Her first day at Arkham?  
"Speaking of psychos, did you see this?" Pamela reaches for her purse and picks out the Gotham Times. On the front cover is a humongous question mark.

**A new criminal on the city scene challenges the police with riddles  
WHO IS THE RIDDLER?**

_Is a new wave of terror coming? Commissioner James Gordon states: "We're facing someone who could make the Joker look an amateur"._

_Riddler…_ It's a joke. Mr. J an amateur. What kind of monkey business is this? If only he were free, he'd have this newcomer in his place in an afternoon's work.  
_If only he were free…_

_All our dreams have melted down  
We are hiding in the bushes  
From dead men  
Doing Douglas Fairbanks' stunts_

All our stories burnt  
Our films lost in the rushes  
We can't paint any pictures  
As the moon had all our brushes

Extracting wasps from stings in flight  
Who killed Mr. Moonlight?  
In the shadow of his smile

(Bauhaus, _Who killed Mr. Moonlight?_)


	8. Take care of me

**AMOUR FOU VIII**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Therapy n°6:**

**"Take Care of Me"**

_The hole in me  
I cannot reach  
the one who bleeds  
please set him free  
the hole in me_

The hole in me  
that no one sees  
the hole too deep  
inside of me

(Blackfield, _Hole in me_)

Once accustomed to the revolting taste Pamela Isley's herb tea leaves a pleasant, aromatic aftertaste in the mouth. When she asked the ingredients Pam smiled her unique way, rattling off a list of toxic plants and poisons extracted from the most poisonous snakes. Humor isn't her best asset.  
"I'm going to be very busy the coming days Harley. Forgive me but I won't be much available" she then told her. "There are things I have to make clear at any cost. Concerning Jason. We'll talk about it Tuesday evening".  
Harley's heart sinks. Does it mean she can't call her until given permission to? Just a few days…  
_They're never too few. Especially now that I need you.  
_Pamela wouldn't say more, but Harleen realized that it must be something big. The fact that her friend is opening her eyes on professor Woodrue can only make her happy. Hopefully it will last.  
_No way, Red. If I know you, a couple of sweet words from him and you'll be groveling at his feet again.  
_She feels full of good intentions this morning, which would make her green thumbed friend frown if he could read her thoughts. For the first time, she decides, she'll use to the max the power doctor Arkham gave her. In the solitary ward it doesn't look like morning. The artificial lights never change. Her patient barely looks at her, without leaving his cot. She attempts a shy wave of her fingertips, pointedly ignored. She doesn't take it personally.  
"I'm leaving you alone. Call when you're done" Everton says with a sour face. There's nothing to say really, Morales is definitely more to her liking, if a bit overly anxious.  
"Moment please" Harleen stops him. "I need your help. Put him in the straightjacket, move the chair by the sink and tie him to it strictly. Today we're going to try some special therapy" she says, opening the large shopper she brought along.  
Mr. J in a flash is awake and alert. He sits upright and glares at her with undisguised hatred. Deciphering the silent movement of his lips isn't hard. "Don't you dare… you filthy traitor… it's not funny… no humor at all…"  
For once she disagrees with him: it's a _very_ funny situation, no matter what he says. Although the sight of Everton cracking his fingers before entering the room with what it takes to tie him up is a bad omen.  
"So, clown, you know the rules. Attempt anything and your makeup will cover the welts once you'll have regained your senses, you hear me?"  
She doesn't like such intimidation. Who knows what happens there when she's not there to watch. They have the right to use force on him and Harleen suspects they're not too hesitant to apply it. Suddenly the two hours they spend together every day look too few to her.  
The Joker doesn't try to react, but she perceives his anger. She would have preferred sparing him being tied like that but, after all, she can't fully trust him yet.  
_No grudge_, she thinks seeing him restrained and fuming. _It's all for your own good_.  
She obtains the coded card necessary to leave the cell from Everton and invites him to leave. The real fun is starting. Mr. J's pupils move frantically while Harleen places a towel around his neck and covers his face with shaving foam.  
"I'll have your head for this, you realize that?"  
"I know" she replies smirking while tying his hair with a pink rubber band. "I know you will. At the slightest provocation. But not today".  
She feels wonderfully. It's such a sweet situation her heart is pounding like a teenager's.  
"Be still. I wouldn't want to cut you" she says, getting to work with the disposable razor. She has to be very careful. Woe that she could leave on his face ugly remarks.  
_Does the sight of blood get to your head, Mr. J? We'll have to discuss this.  
_She can't help studying every and each detail of that everlastingly grinning face and realizes that nobody else ever had the chance to be in contact with him like that, docile under one's hands, utterly submissive, or maybe just too bored to go through the motions of a reaction. The muscular neck, the jaw line, the pouty lips…  
_I sure hope whoever's responsible for this is rotting under a solid six feet of terrain. Just who could mar a face like this one?  
_She wonders how old those scars are. She can't make her mind about it. They're not very fresh but their shape and the wide margins left by clumsy stitching are too obvious to date back to early childhood.  
_Why don't you tell me about them, Mr. J? It's where everything started, right?  
_"Not the slightest tremor… Let's play a bit, Harley Quinn. Let's see if your hand can be still. Any hesitation and I'll take something yours, okay?"  
She doesn't reply. How could she say no to him? And he's tied anyway. His freedom right now totals to zero.  
"Quiet. You're disturbing my concentration".  
Was she really doubt-ridden yesterday? How foolish. It's so simple, really. She doesn't care one whit that this will never be called a 'normal' relationship: it will be 'great' and 'special'.  
_I know you love me too, Mr. J. I know.  
_"There's one of your colleagues, Harley. All business and professional, like you or the heart of the party, Connors. His name was Connors, right? _Hand_some fellow".  
She shouldn't be laughing. It's nasty stuff. But she's only barely able to stifle her guffaws. "His name is _still_ Connors. Like it or not, he survived".  
He rolls his eyes as if annoyed. "Don't interrupt me Harl. I could lose the thread of my thoughts. There's a psychiatrist who's the spitting image of Connors… Speaking of him, bring him some chocolate from me, and remember to place it on the _left_ side of the bed, otherwise he might not be able to reach it. Well… Your colleague has a patient in his study, just like you right now, only without erotic tension".  
Harleen moves the razor away from his face. The question Pamela asked her now finds an answer: he knows. Or at least knows that she feels something for him. Better let him think it's nothing more than physical attraction .  
"Did I embarrass you? Very sorry. I thought it was official already".  
Such a know-it-all leer. Such an astute glare… He's not trying to scare her. It's not his aim. Or perhaps he's still pondering how to do it.  
_You couldn't make it attempting to kill me. What are you gonna try next?  
_"And what happens in my colleague's study?" she asks. Better to return to his funny stories. Much better.  
"Well, it's really simple. The patient is a complete fool. Think the Bat-dupe on his best day".  
Harleen opens her mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. It's not the right moment to ask him how's the Batman up close.  
"Are they still pretending to be trying to apprehend him out there? Doesn't matter. Dear Jimbo's pastime doesn't concern us. To cut it short, the Connors lookalike shows Bats his oh-so-useful Rorschach blots and asks him what he sees in the first one. 'A man and a woman having sex', our hero replies".  
Harleen decides to leave him tied for the rest of his life should the story end in a festival of grossness. It would be too disappointing.  
"I'm done" she announces, then with the towel wipes from his face the residual foam. "I brought with me three sorts of aftershave. Which one do you like better? Spices, citrus, fruit?"  
"Unfair. Our little game is pointless like this. Shall we do it again?"  
She smirks. His little eccentricities will never tire her. "Fine, I'll pick one then" she proceeds on.  
Citrus. It fits well with his personality, or so at least her instincts say.  
"The customer isn't completely satisfied. Tell me Harley, do you do it with every patient or must I think myself privileged?"  
Harleen pours some lotion on her palms and applies it to his cheeks. The roughness of the scars sends a shiver down her spine. She wonders how it would be like to touch them with her lips.  
"No. I only do it for love" she replies instinctively. "What happened to Connors?"  
"I'll tell you right now, just stop drowning me with fruit juice. Connors shows his patient in black another image and he says that he sees two men having sex".  
Harleen's breathing falters as she feels his hand circle her waist. How and when could it happen? He made only minimal movements. How could he be free before she could so much as notice it? Se should call Everton in, immediately. Before… His grip is firm. She'll never be entirely safe around him.  
"You want to cry out, Harley? I'm not doing anything nasty. Just remarking a basilar concept. Well, two concepts".  
"Which ones?" she asks, trying to sound calm.  
He reflects for a second. "Connors shows the rodent a third image. 'Two women having sex' the bat promptly answers. Which ones… lemme see… The first one is that I could take you as hostage, threatening to snap your neck should anyone attempt to stop me. But I don't suppose I feel like it now. Plenty of time to leave anyway. The second is, you are mine. Remember it, cupcake".  
_I will.  
_"I'll have to tie you again before I leave, you know? Don't you ever make anything like this in the surveyed areas" she suggests taking her scarf off and placing it around his neck. She has no need to hide the welts, they're his mark on her. She'll show them around with pride. "It's yours. To keep you warm".  
"Tie me up. I like it. What then? Will you have the guts to do what you so much wish to be doing right now?"  
Harleen lets his hair loose. Does this make them two perspective clandestine lovers? And haven't they really been that since the start? But she won't give in. Not before the trial. It wouldn't be professional.  
_But you can still hold me close, thank you…  
_"No" she lies in reply. "I won't ever give you cause for smugness. Unless you really decided to cooperate".  
What a laugh. Right now the survey is as far as it can be from her mind. She simply desperately needs to know him truly.  
"What do you need to know, Harley?" Mr. J asks condescendingly. "I'll tell you anything you want to hear. To preserve your smile. Only, I need a little favor from you".  
"What kind of favor? If it's something illegal…"  
Mr. J denies. "Oh no. I would never ask you to give up your sound judgment. You should simply go to a shop between Jefferson Avenue and the 54th and tell the owner to have a 36 ready as soon as possible. And a 12 also".  
_Weapons?_ Harleen wonders. She's going to find out tonight. Refusal isn't an option to her.  
"Anything else?" she asks.  
"No" he replies. "Did I already tell you that you make my head spin? A girl like you is met only once in a lifetime. A girl like you, who can look at me fawning…"  
She must go now. She's already gone too far. Within a few minutes she could well find herself crawling at his feet.  
"How does your story end?" she asks.  
Mr. J lets her go. For today Harleen can't expect anything more, and it's best left like this.  
"Simple" he follows on. "The doctor says 'Good. I think I have an idea of what your problem is. We can start working on it'. And the patient retorts '_My_ problem? It's you who keep such filth in your office'".  
_I hate you_.  
Harleen ties him, closes the cell, puts everything back in her purse and calls Everton, without ceasing to laugh and feeling a total fool. She'll have to work on the weekend also, and she doesn't mind one bit.

Doctor Arkham's overflowing politeness unsettles Harley. After he invited her to move on as quickly as possible they didn't talk once. Harleen delivered dutifully her reports leaving them at the entrance and even crossing in the corridors they went no further than reciprocating nods. But now the old man looks more relaxed.  
"I've been told that this morning you took care of the patient's grooming personally. Wouldn't you agree that's a wee bit beyond the mansions competing to you?" he asks offering her a bowl of candies.  
The word grooming makes her somehow think of fluffed-up poodles. "I'd say I had little choice, as the barber you pay to do his job on _each and every one_ of our patients refuses to go near him. I've been careful, believe me".  
_What's better than a strong male arm around your waist?_ That the Joker has been free for long minutes and she didn't call for help must remain a secret. So they'll have their own secret. _As long as it's not the first in a string of many. I can't dare too much…  
_"I see" Arkham comments leaving her speechless. No scolding? No lecture? "Could you tell me your impressions? Do you think there's a chance that he could be healed and reintegrated?"  
"No" she instantly replies, knowing full well how true that is. "He possesses an extraordinary intelligence coupled with a fundamental infantilism that deprives him of any empathy towards other people. It's a scary mix, you know that better than me. I think he lives in a dimension beyond access, at least for the time present, where he sets the rules. Interaction isn't part of it".  
"Not even with you?" If Arkham spoke sarcastically, she didn't notice.  
"Not even with me" she replies. "I think that he's just playing right now. That he believes he has some power over me. It's not true, but there's no reason he should be made aware of it. This is why I'm inclined to pretend to be seconding him: to dent his armor. But it will be a long time before we see a result".  
It's a convincing speech, she almost believed it herself. And after all it's plausible that, subconsciously, she's doing exactly that. More or less.  
"So, I guess, we'll have to keep him here forever at the expense of the county. I'm not utterly persuaded by your methods, Quinzel, but I hope that I'll have to rethink my opinion. You're the one with the superior IQ" Arkham finishes with a small laugh. "And your books sell more than mine do. Are you planning to keep taking care of him when the trial is over? Provided the court accepts your survey… Would you like me to accompany you to the courtroom, Harleen?"  
"If you wish to." Yes, it will be a hoot putting up a show of irreproachable professionalism right in front of Arkham. "That aside… I thought you wanted to fire me".  
Arkham's expression turns immediately serious. "I'm worried about you. The enthusiasm you poured into this case… You look exhausted, Quinzel, and after so short a time. I would remind you to never forget that ours is a job that entails risks. That the madness we live constantly with, after a period, starts appearing normal and contaminates us. And it's right then that we're forced to decide whether we are firmly anchored enough to go on or we are to throw the towel before we discover we've moved to the other side of the fence. And one such as the Joker could take down individuals of much vaster concreteness and experience than yours".  
_More than you can think, dr. Arkham.  
_Thinking of Harvey Dent makes her smirk. Is there anything Mr. J cannot do? She's sure he's going to surprise her again, provided she doesn't quit now. Arkham is giving her a last chance.  
"May I give you an answer after the hearing?" she asks. There's still a chance that the judge won't give a damn about her survey and will send him to prison. It would save her. She would not be able to see him again and would be forced to leave everything concerning him behind.  
_Dreadful.  
_"You look worn, Harleen. Perhaps you have trouble sleeping?" Arkham asks her.  
Harleen doesn't respond. Although she all but placed her upcoming book on hiatus she always ends up staying up late to study her patient's dossier. And when finally she falls asleep her dreams are restless. She only dreams of masks, white and grinning.  
"Maybe I bit more than I can chew, dr. Arkham".  
Absolutely true. This case is eating her alive.  
"And still…" Arkham hesitates, as if scared of his own words. "Harleen, the Joker apparently has developed some sort of fancy toward you. Most likely because you're young and very attractive. I dread his reaction should anyone take you away from him. You do know what I refer to: I don't want to see the fate that befell Connors happen again".  
"_A handsome fellow_".  
"Are you aware how sexist what you're saying is? And since when do we allow patients to blackmail us?" Harleen protests.  
"_You are mine. Remember it, cupcake_".  
Arkham smirks knowingly. "Don't pretend to ignore that the subject is completely out of control and well beyond our reach".  
Harleen returns the smirk. "You're completely right. And this is why his presence here is driving us all out of the loop, right? The spotlight is on us now".  
The Narrows are crowded with journalists since the Joker was transferred. They all have been firmly instructed not to declare anything. And there are protesters, too. Relatives of Mr. J's victims, mostly. The police has a hard time keeping them under control. They want his head and, for the time present, they vent their anger fighting with the smaller group that paint their faces white and call for his liberation. Day after day reaching the parking lot is a struggle and they must fight for every inch. Dr. Arkham is just waiting for them to beach into his private property to have internal security intervene. Then it will be another ball game.  
_So long as he's here, he's safe.  
_"We're not toying here, Harleen" Arkham reminds her.  
_I know. How sad, really.  
_"Who knows, maybe we'll be able to heal him for real" she says standing up. Time to get to work and starting the survey.  
_Or maybe after all is said and done we won't even be able to tell something was wrong in the first place._

Harleen Quinzel parked between Jefferson Avenue and the 54th ten minutes ago, but still doesn't dare leaving the car. She knows she's about to enter quicksand. She shouldn't have complied to the Joker's requests. But then, saying no to him would have been just as dangerous.  
"No, Mr. J, don't you even mention it".  
That would have been the perfect excuse to get rid of her. You don't say no to the Joker.  
_So here I am, ready for the next, colossal blunder, just like his obedient lapdog.  
_Just what task did she accept? With whom will she have to deal? She'd rather not discover it. Dregs. Criminals like him. Scum ready to cut her throat once she'll have delivered the message. She'll have to buy a gun, sooner or later. It's hard to survive in Gotham without one.  
She lays her head on the driving wheel to stop thinking. She'll count to a hundred and decide what to do. She'll count to a hundred, start the engine and drive home. She'll count to a hundred.  
_But…  
_Her phone rings, making her start. She's too tense. The way things are going she'll get a nasty nervous breakdown. On the display the name 'Scarecrow' appears. Jonathan. The icing on the cake.  
"Hello, Crane?"  
"Harley… Hello. Would it be possible to know why we have to postpone tonight's appointment also? You've been cancelling every date for the past two weeks without so much as offering a good excuse".  
Testy. A bout of male hysteria just does it.  
"Forgive me" she justifies herself without really feeling it. "But the Joker is taking every free minute I have. Starting with next week…"  
"Oh my, doctor Quinzel is thus revealed to have major league patients and varsity patients".  
Is this jealousy? If it's not, she doesn't know a thing about men. "Doctor to doctor, Jonathan, you know damn well that this time I'm not dealing with setting one of Carmine Falcone's lackeys free like you did in the happy pre-Batman days. It's a much more thorny matter…"  
"When are we going out, Harley?"  
_Doggedly stubborn, are we?  
_"I'll call you back tonight, I swear".  
It's not polite to hung up the phone to a friend. Especially when said friend is a dangerous maniac with an obsession for fear, recently back to the 'normal' world. She'll really call him. She likes him, after all. The other girls at the dorm, during college, couldn't see what she saw in that scrawny nerd perpetually lost in his thoughts. Actually Jonathan's features are incredibly well chiseled. Yet Harleen never went out with her brilliant fellow student. _He_ was there then, and that left no room for anyone else. Or so she thought. Because her feelings now are more strong and creepy.  
_Is this how you feel when you find your true love?  
_There are no rules, as she learned the hard way. She can only let herself be ravaged.  
_Enough pussyfooting_, she thinks leaving the car.  
Following his instructions she finds herself in front of a theater tailor's shop. She looks around in confusion while two teens exit the store carrying a big envelope. Such a place must be a goldmine come Halloween or Fat Tuesday. It's the right address, no doubting that. The business is maybe a front to something shady, despite the innocuous appearance.  
Harleen straightens her back and enters, immediately rediscovering the scent of sequined bodices fresh out of the box to be used in a floor exercise worthy of a medal. The costumers on the mannequins are gorgeous: an Egyptian queen complete with wig, a Renaissance gentleman, a page with a splendid light blue feather on the velvet hat.  
_Marvelous, marvelous… This must be Heaven. I must return with Pamela. I _absolutely _must return with Pamela.  
_"Good evening. May I help you, dear?"  
A mature woman comes out of the back and smiles at her amiably. Here comes the difficult part, supposing that she didn't make an atrocious mistake.  
"Yes. Well, so I think. Maybe I'm in the wrong place".  
"That depends on what you're looking for" the woman insists.  
True that. And what is she _looking for_ exactly?  
"Look… I'm really embarrassed. Someone asked me to come hear and ask you to get a 12 and a 36 ready as soon as possible. I honestly couldn't tell you more".  
The woman's face seems to be crushed under the weight of her own smile, which dies down quickly. "And just who are you supposed to be? Why did he send you?"  
Harleen had prepared mentally to face a squad of fully armed assassins, not an authoritarian looking seamstress. She thinks better to tell it how it is before she extracts a sawed gun from somewhere.  
"I'm supposed to be… I'm his psychiatrist. Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I work at Arkham. And right now I truly wish I was there instead of here".  
The woman evaluates her from head to toe, then double locks the front door and exposes a 'closed' sign.  
"His psychiatrist, huh? I thought you were a high school student, go figure".  
Harleen forces herself to smile. She stopped considering such remarks complimentary once she realized that being taken seriously when you have a perennial girlish face and stand five foot one is rather difficult.  
"Come with me" the woman tells her, inviting her to the back shop.  
The place is larger than she'd have thought, more than the shop proper. Cloth, mannequins and sewing stations make her realize the owner doesn't work alone. The woman extracts from a corner desk a sketchbook and starts flipping through it.  
"Just what good does he think a 12 and a 36 would be to him while he's kept in an asylum? Do you hold fashion shows in there?"  
Clothes. The Joker sent her on an errand to buy new clothes. Nothing could surprise her further, not even the tailor who created the iconic violet overcoat with orange lining, as of late Gotham's most copied garment.  
"Could you tell me how long has he been your customer? You've known him for how long?" Harleen asks her watching the many photos on show on the wall. Theatrical plays, autographed images of renowned opera singers, but most of all circus scenes. They seem to be the most true and spontaneous. In some the costume tailor, quite younger, is goofing for the camera with acrobats and jugglers.  
"Enough to be amazed to still be alive. But it has to be said, I know he lets me live because finding a trustworthy tailor who never asks questions isn't simple. You should do that also, blondie. Never ask questions. To me, or him".  
No, she won't give up so easily. She'll never have such a chance. Here's someone who knew the Joker beyond his criminal mask. Someone she could mine information about his past from. She's not going to let it pass.  
"Asking questions is my job, madam. Did you work in a circus? Must be great fun. When I was a little girl I dreamed of being a trapeze artist. Then I settled for gymnastics. Possibly less spectacular, but more serious sounding".  
"You have the right build. Small and small". The woman comes close to her and points out a photo of a man and a woman in costumes, bright red, vivid green and gold. "The Flying Graysons. That's how they call themselves. John and Mary. She left for a while when they had a baby, a few years ago. They sent me his portrait. You see, even when you leave that world you can't really stop feeling that you're part of the family. That you share their triumphs and misery. I've been living in Gotham for seven years now, and still feel nostalgia for the wandering life. Even today, when everything is swallowed by great global shows. When there's no room anymore for a small crew like ours…"  
Harleen isn't listening anymore. The grinning boy who proudly displays a series of knives has a light within that she's never seen in him. It could be an illusion. Perhaps her eyes are deceiving her, showing her what she wants to see.  
_Is that him?  
_Young and at ease. His face smooth, spotless. And the lips stretched without a hint of vinegar. She couldn't be sure, but she's certain that she's right.  
"I have to know who he really is" she says to the woman by her side. "I can't help him without knowing a thing about him. He never speaks about himself to me and I can't get a grip on anything. What was he before her became a bloodthirsty joker?"  
The woman chuckles. "Help him?"  
Harleen turns to look at her. She also is looking at the young knife thrower in the picture.  
"You can't help him, girl. You wish you could turn his clock back, but things just don't work like that. You want to know who he really is, but you know that already and you don't have to ask me. He's the Joker. Nothing else. If once there was someone else in his place, he's dead now and you can't resurrect him. You'd better resign".  
_But how? How did that part of him die? The one whose eyes could smile?_  
If she could make that look return for a second she could say she won. She wishes there was a way. But it seems impossible to her, at least as long as they're surrounded by the walls of Arkham.  
_And the even more solid ones between me and him.  
_Her need to know his history is growing stronger. One day a long time ago he was born when a pair of eyes ceased to shine. Why?  
"Don't do that" the woman tells her. "You're about to make the gravest mistake of your whole life, kid. Sooner or later we all fell in love for the wrong guy. Only he's _catastrophically_ wrong. Don't' start digging inside him hoping to find what's left of his heart. You'd only find a piece of rotten meat, nothing more".  
_Jeez, maybe I have a sign on my forehead reading "I love the Joker"?  
_She assured him that she won't try to change him. That she thinks him perfect as he is. Still she wants to know what was the source of that madness she craves above all things.  
"So, is that you who pay his lawyers?"  
The woman laughs. "I sure don't. The idea of him locked up for the rest of his life is perfectly fine by me. One's life gets easier, don't you think?"  
_How desperately alone you are, Mr. J. This person seems to care about you, yet she also fears you so much that she'd have you enchained.  
_For a moment it's as if she's reading the pages of his dossier again. He's dangerous. Sick. Maims, tortures and kills for his amusement only and with chilling coldness. Why does she always forget about it?  
_Is this the chaos you were looking for, Harleen? Is this the reason you still think everything is fine as it is?  
_"Can you help me? I need a costume for Fat Tuesday night. Do you have a Harlequin dress that could fit my size?"  
The woman observes her from head to toe. "A Harlequin, you say? I have a two-tone one that could be what you need, if you're not looking for anything very complex. Red and black. Come this way, let's see if it fits".  
Red and black. She had envisioned something multicolored, bit it doesn't matter as long as the message is delivered loud and clear.  
_For one evening I want to lose my head completely, let myself go and be only a free, cackling mask.  
_She turns back once more to peek at the photo on the wall. She'll push him until he tells her everything, one way or another. For now she'll take the first step, trying out how does it feel to impersonate a boundless clown. Presumably evil. Red and black.

_What have I done  
treat me tonight like a movie star  
who will never die  
always surrounded by girls like you  
kill all my loneliness  
kill all my loneliness_

The hole in me  
that never sleeps  
born with me  
it's killing me

(Blackfield, _Hole in me_)


	9. The crux of the matter

**AMOUR FOU IX**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Therapy n°7:**

**"The crux of the matter** **"**

_Is it true what they say,  
Are we too blind to find a way?  
Fear of the unknown cloud our hearts today.  
Come into my world,  
See through my eyes.  
Try to understand,  
Don't want to lose what we have_

_We've been dreaming  
But who can deny,  
It's the best way of living  
Between the truth and the lies_

(Within Temptation, _See who I am_)

"_Hands full of rotten flesh_".  
Harleen Quinzel can't avoid thinking about it every time her fingers touch the keyboard. Sure. Sure, it's obvious. She knows her job enough to understand it. Even if she should find his weak spot it would do her no good: it would just make him more dangerous. The Joker doesn't like to sow his weak side. He's too dang self-centered to tolerate that. But there are other words that keep haunting her.  
"_You are mine. Remember it, cupcake_".  
What's the point of lying still to herself? _Nothing_'s under control.  
_Do what you must, Harleen, and stop offering laughable justifications. Keep him close. You already decided that, come what may, it will be worth it.  
_Four days more, then no one will ever come to take him away. Four days to persuade an ill-disposed judge, just like those others who would pick up torches and pitchforks to strike at the monster.  
_Infantilism… A distorted psychological development… Childhood traumas?  
_Scrap that. The boy in the photo looked happy.  
_Some kind of traumatic event representing the point of no return? Latent pre-existing psychic disorders.  
_Shush, it seems so obvious. No one could deny his unsoundness of mind, as it is commonly defined.  
The DA office called her, exactly as Wayland had told her they would. It will be difficult not to laugh in their faces now that she knows the dirt about Harvey Dent. His spotless image makes them feel invincible. She'll have to ask Jonathan what his trick to keep a cool appearance was. He could barely contain himself when she asked him out Tuesday.  
"Could you bring another guy along? A friend of mine is having a hard time with… with the putrid slime ball she's seeing now. She needs to branch out".  
Pamela will have her head for this. As of late, in fact, it looks like everyone wants her head.  
"You're neglecting me, Harley" her moody patient says, forcing her to raise her gaze from her laptop. He's lying on the couch looking bored, head hanging back to look at her crossed. "I've been here for an hour and you didn't ask a thing. Didn't attempt an hypothesis. Didn't make me smile a single time. You just kept on hammering on that keyboard there. What am I to do to grab a bit of your attention, cupcake? Do I have to come there and slit your throat?"  
Harleen adjusts her glasses. "Do it, Mr. J. But isn't that a somewhat too quick method for your standards? You're not helping me. You don't talk. I might as well use my time in a more constructive way".  
She knows such a provocation entails risks, but she knows him enough already. She knows that he does something only if it's not imposed on him. Only if he wants it. She has to make him want her.  
"I told you I would answer any question. What's up? Don't you trust me, Harley? That's not nice. You know I'm true to my word. Why don't you come here close to me, instead of staying there chewing?".  
Such a mawkish intonation, like a spoiled child. Sitting close to him? Later, maybe.  
"I'm trying to quit smoking. Gums help me. What are you planning to do with the suits you had me order? Planning to go somewhere?" she asks abruptly.  
The real question, which stays between her lips is: "_Will you tell me the story of a young knife thrower?_" But she won't ask it, ever.  
Mr. J. laughs, almost ominously it seems to her. "Of course. We can't go on seeing each other like this. Time for me to take you to dinner someplace nice".

"I have to go back to work now" Harleen Quinzel states, squeezing the vice-DA's hand. Dent's replacement. Twenty minutes of haranguing in a half -empty office, while everyone else in town is enjoying the Saturday.  
When the appeal to her 'civic conscience' came, Harleen realized her counterpart was running short of reasons.  
"I'll do the right thing" she replied. She's getting nauseous repeating that time and again. They're scared shitless of bringing home a thunderous defeat, that's it. That's why they didn't request Mr. J. to be present at the hearing. They'd have a hard time demonstrating some supposed sanity faced with one of his shows.  
_That Puddin' is out of the ordinary is simply impossible to ignore._  
He's waiting for her. She won't waste any more time there.  
"You seem to be happy, dr. Quinzel. Do you always wear that grin?" the legal mummy asks.  
Is that sarcasm? He'll laugh even harder Wednesday morning. What the devil is this guy's name? She can't remember it for her life.  
"Don't worry" she reassures him. "I'll do nothing that in my profession wouldn't regard as ethical. I'm sure that if Harvey Dent were here he'd advise me to be strictly correct".  
She's tempted to laugh in his face. Perhaps he's one _in the know_.  
"See you in court. And no hard feelings, however things turn out".

"I swear, he really looked like an anisette lolly" Harleen Quinzel chuckles handing him another sandwich. She made them herself. They both won't be forced to leave the study for lunch. They have too little time to waste it.  
Mr. J. looks interested and amused by her visit to the DA office, where she met ice lolly man in his light blue jacket. Nobody can wear such a thing in winter and expect to be taken seriously.  
"You sure look merry, Harley Quinn. Tell me, are you really sure about what you're going to write in your account? Do you really think I'm mad?"  
She looks at him, quietly leaning against the armrest on the couch. It's a trick question, one she's been reflecting on intensively. And she keeps changing her mind. Right now she thinks he just likes people to think he's crazier than he is.  
"You're crazy enough to tell your lawyer that you could escape from here at your whim. How do you think you could?"  
"With patience. Lots of it" he answers closing his eyes. "It isn't harder than having a rose be laid on your desk. Kill the cameras. Create a short-circuit. Get rid of the twelve guards and the cops stationing on the island. Five groups, one for each bridge, each one made of four men. It's more than just simple, it's elementary really".  
The rose. They never discussed it. As the days go by Harleen isn't so sure anymore that it was someone else doing the errand. Her romantic fantasy of secret passages in the basement leading her bold sweetheart to her is indescribably pleasant.  
_But also implausible, sadly.  
_"How can you know the security system in detail? So it's true you have informers in here. Are you aware that I should tell it to my superiors so that they might take appropriate countermeasures?"  
He looks around tiredly. "Yes, you should. You really should".  
He's having a ball making fun of her, testing her limits. He knows very well that she won't tell anyone. She realizes she's very angry now. Picking up her notebook she goes to sit on the opposite side of the couch from him. Mr. J. regales her with a long perplexed glare.  
"Closer" he finally says, and the word is a dull growl.  
_The most merciless, crazy and cruel being ever to grace Gotham City. Remember that, Harleen…  
_"Not now. It's time to start working on your case and put jokes and silly amenities aside".  
The frowns on his face become even more grotesque than usual. He's clearly irritated, but she doesn't care.  
"I need another, little favor".  
_Here we go again.  
_This time she's going to be irremovable. Her world and horizon have to stop being all over the place.  
"No way" she replies assertively.  
"A tiny, tiny one…"  
She can't resist to him when he speaks like that. Why does she have to be so weak? "And it would be…?"  
_The most merciless, crazy and cruel being…  
_"Hair tonic. Green dye. White greasepaint. And…" Mr. J. stops when she throws him a bewildered look.  
Maybe there's been a breakthrough. Something's hiding behind this grotesque request.  
"What is driving you to reject yourself? Your appearance, your face… The clown protects you, right? His purpose isn't to strike terror into people like the police thinks. The clown prevents strangers from seeing you for real".  
"Damn, they teach some crap in college…" his grin reappears, as malevolent as ever. But something clicked inside her: the loving Harlequin has taken the back seat, leaving room for the medic captivated by the clinical case only. The key was always there in her soul, although she couldn't see it. Now she only has to grab it. The clown. Proceeding backwards is the only option.  
"Harley…"  
Mr. J. moves to her side. She forces herself to remain still.  
_Don't you lose your concentration now. It is not the time.  
_"Harley… Everton took my scarf away… It had your perfume on. I liked having it on me, Harley…"  
Concentration. Harleen gets goosebumps as he skims her ear with his lips and whispers her name again. "Harley Quinn… your scent…"  
Harley gulps and involuntarily closes her eyes. "I'll tell him to give it back to you… to…"  
His guttural laughter, so close, strikes her like an electric shock. "Oh no, it's not necessary. I just wanted you to know that I'm going to get it back".  
She quickly turns her head to look at him directly. This promises to result into a mess of galactic proportions.  
"Don't do anything foolish Mr. J., please. They would just get rough. They'd take you away. I don't want them to take you away…"  
"…take me away from you, Harley. They won't. And I want the scarf my Harley gave me back".  
She doesn't know what's going on, she only knows that she has to get away from him. Like, yesterday.  
_The most merciless, crazy and…  
_She abruptly stands up. "You told me you'd answer any question" she says, his back to him. She knows he's still grinning. It seems the right moment to imitate him. That last thing still pending… she looks at him from over her shoulder.  
_We're accomplices, lovers and partners in crime, Mr. J.  
_"I'd like you to tell me how did you blow Gotham General up".

_Yes, that's it. Finally we are there.  
_Harleen Quinzel smirks privately.  
"I thought you had quit" Joan Leland remarks, watching her inhale beatifically a puff of smoke.  
"Last one".  
She has to celebrate. Such moments deserve reveling in triumph. Mr. J. spoke unbridled. He looked enthusiastic about telling her how he threw Gotham into chaos threatening to blow a hospital up. Wonder what became of that pettifogger, Coleman Reese, the deep throat, the real culprit. Strange that the police didn't force him to reveal Batman's identity. Once the guy under those preposterous pointy ears is known, they'd only have to knock at his door to arrest him.  
_But Jim Gordon just doesn't want to take him in, isn't that so? The show must go on.  
_"How's your special case doin'?" Joan asks. "Arkham seems to be satisfied with your progress".  
"Is that a problem to you?" Harleen looks at he askance. Little people of no utility. She wishes she could rid the Asylum of their presence.  
"Don't be so jumpy, Harley. Why should it be?"  
_Yeah. Why?  
_"Instead" Joan goes on, "I'm telling you this confidentially because I'm your friend: there are rumors about you and that guy…"  
"Hold it, hold it…" Harleen interrupts her.  
_Because you're my friend…  
_"Let me guess. The above-mentioned rumors have me sleeping with my patient, right? Next time you would all be well-advised to be a smidgen more imaginative. This one is as trite as a noir story opening with a night scene".  
Probably Joan is still trying to decipher the concept expressed by her last sentence It is not surprising to her that the other woman can't keep her pace. Her ilk can't really conceive of anything like a big picture, much less postulate a relationship like the one Mr. J. and she share.  
"So you're keeping on the hook. Who would have guessed that…" Joan's expression becomes spiteful. "It's a matter of time. Afterwards let me know how being banged by a homicidal maniac is. I'm curios, but thankfully have better tastes".  
Harleen inhales again, offering her a suave smile. "Will do".

The plausibly last afternoon they're to spend together Harleen frees his hands.  
Mr. J. says nothing as he rotates his wrists to stimulate circulation in his numb arms. He asks nothing, not even why. And she realizes he was expecting that. Tomorrow they could take him away, to be imprisoned forever at Blackgate. She doesn't want to think about it, but the danger is there and pretending to ignore it won't make it go away.  
"Where were we?" she asks sitting by his side. "You told me how you got rid of Mike Engel. Then what? I don't want to talk of how you were captured. Let's go back. Tell me of the hunt for Harvey Dent, how you shook the police forces, including helicopters, off. Of what happened at the police station".  
Logic. Control. To hell with them. His shoulders are broad, the arm encircling her waist strong. She can hear his heart beat, proof that he also has one, if only to pump blood into his veins.  
And he starts recounting again, in vivid detail. Fables made of explosives and torn flesh, of firearms and chases into the night. Fables that lull her pleasantly even when he, sometimes, almost casually says her name.  
_Don't take him away from me. Don't. I could die. Don't you.  
_It's thrilling. She's starting to get it. She's starting to feel an adrenaline rush at the explosion. What's the next step?  
_Bare handed… What do you feel when your hands choke someone to the bitter end? When you sink a blade? If you'll stay here I'm sure I'll make you tell me, Mr. J. You'll tell me of the first time a knife you were wielding held the power of life and death…  
_"You're shaking, Harley Quinn. Finally you're afraid…"  
_Maybe.  
_Not completely, not with his fingers running through her hair. It's not fear. It's a wave of excitement as she's faced with the unexpected. Her textbooks never said it, but now Harleen knows that the only way of getting to know a mind like his is to lose one's sanity.  
"What in your opinion is the latent potential for insanity within a person commonly considered normal?" she asks. "When does the braking point come, and why?"  
"Why are you asking me? You're the psychiatrist here. You're the one who one day decided that all minds should conform to the others, right? That there has to be order. And chose to became what you are…"  
She wants to tell him "_You're wrong_". But she understands that he doesn't believe it himself. He knows very well that she didn't specialize in psychiatry for that.  
_Rules, common sense, control… There was a time I thought it possible.  
_She snuggles up to her murderous patient, berating herself for the final time. "Order. There's no such thing, never was. Here's your proof. I'm going against every rule in the book. Falling in love with you smashes them all in one single blow. I'm a doctor, you're my patient. A dangerous criminal. You're the antithesis of everything I should strive for, but I can't help wanting you. Is it really so weird, Mr. J.?"  
She said it, but doesn't feel relieved. His silence weights like a rock. How long before he laughs again, laugh about her, of her pitiful confession? She wishes she had the strength to raise her head and look at him directly.  
"Harley, Harley, Harley… why do you call it weird?" he asks her after what looks like a century. "Just because the other people don't expect it? You looked so serious the day we met. A girl like you always has to prove something, isn't it? She buns her hair, dresses severely so that the people looking at her might consider her a doctor, a professional, a person, a human being. A girl such as you must lock herself in a cage to be heard. And yet, despite it all, whenever you enter a room and approach a man, part of his mind can only think that you're good-looking, that he'd love to peep while you're undressing, that he'd be so eager to drag you to the bedroom. This is where your being a part of a mechanism ends, Harley. And you're wondering why you let yourself be intrigued by someone like me? You know that vey well, Harley. You don't have to pretend with me, and I don't do that with you. When you're with me you're free, you're yourself. And I make you laugh, which is no negligible thing. Were you looking for me, Harley? And for how long have you been?"  
_How long…  
_What he's saying is true, every single word. She has to wear a mask to carry on, a mask that proves useless most of the time. With him it's different. If only she had the strength to break free for real…  
"Answer me, Harley. I know something is holding you back. Tell me what it is. You know you want to. That's why you came to me".  
_No_.  
She slips out of his embrace and sits down again . "There's nothing of that sort" she says. But he grabs her again, forcing her to stay there .  
"No, no, Harley, be still. What's with this surge of cowardice? Don't make me hurt you. Tell me everything, Harley. Spit out the secret you never told anyone: I want it. I want it so badly I could cut through your heart to reach it".  
"Let me go…" she begs, knowing it's in vain.  
What has she done? He could break her neck. How could she be so dense as to free him?  
"Speak, speak, speak…" he insists while pulling her hair. Her eyes fill with tears. "Speak, Harley. Honesty is the basis of every relationship, honey bunny. Tell me, tell me, tell me. Who put that glint in your eyes? Why did you come to me? Why did you choose me? What do you expect from me?"  
"Because you have the answers" she finally says as two distinct sorts of pain wet her face. "You understood. You know why it happened. There are no rules, nothing can be controlled. I was an idiot, Mr. J. I thought I was following a pattern, that everything would go as expected, instead…"  
The gun to his forehead. "_I can't do it myself, Quinz…_" He shook so badly that she was almost certain he'd drop the weapon within seconds.  
"Instead?" Mr. J urges her on, letting go of her hair.  
"Instead he chose to die. It wasn't expected, it shouldn't have happened, it wasn't part of the _plan_".  
"_I can't do it myself, Quinz... I'm not strong enough. Help me. You will, will you? You love me… Help me_".  
"Oh, I see. We're dealing with tragic love. Who was the lucky man?" His grip is still firm but she doesn't want to struggle anymore. She feels out of energy.  
"His name was Guy…" she whispers, and his laughter sickens her.  
"Guy. Small wonder he decided to call it quits. Hush now, stop crying. I don't like seeing you like that. Not over someone else, anyway. Tell me about Guy. What was the matter? Was it you who found him, cupcake?"  
"I was there". She'll feel better later. Later she'll be free to imagine her splendid, happy life again. Because her life _is _splendid and happy_. _"Guy… you know how these things go, surely? You know, Mr. J. Social experiment, dr. Markus and I called it. But it went off the rails. Guy killed a man and took his own life. It's true, he did it… I just took his hands… He said, 'I can't do it myself, Quinz, help me'. While holding the gun to his face…"  
"And what did you do? Did you pull the trigger for him? Did you?"  
How can he look so enthusiastic? Why does he seem to find it fun? Oh right, she knows that very well: because he's a sadistic madman.  
"I don't know!" she replies. "I don't know. I don't remember. I grabbed his hands and told him everything would be fine. But I don't know. I remember the bang, the blood on the wall and doctor Markus telling me to relax, that no one would ever know. But I don't know J, I _don't know_".  
"Look at me, Harley". He makes turn around. "So your boyfriend made you realize that nothing can really be planned. How silly of you. And you spent years musing over this? You know who your Guy was? A pathetic wimp. You can't play with life and death when you're not ready to put even your own at stake. He wasn't. He asked his loved one's help because he doesn't have the guts to go the whole way. And what about you, Harley? Did you go the whole way? Did you realize the way things really work? That their crystal clear categories only work when they're shown in the negative? So stop this at once, Harley. Think about it, it was only because of your Guy and his kicking the bucket that your chancellor was forced to send you here, right? Because here is where you belong, and you know it. The heart of unpredictability. And I am here. And I tell you, you should stop letting a laughable remorse tie you down. People die all the time. People is fated to die. So are you. So am I. The moment it sinks in, everything becomes clear. And funny. Portentously funny".  
He's right. Once again he's right. What has she been doing for so long a time? She was looking for an answer in madness, a madness like the one she saw in Guy's eyes back then. But there's no answer. Everything is chaos. He is chaos, the very essence of it. That's why she wants him.  
"Are you never afraid, Mr. J?"  
His smile could almost seem sweet as he lets her go, if only his eyes weren't still shining with ferocity.  
"And just what is there to be afraid of, Harley? What? Fear is what keeps them down, all of them. And you know that. If you're still alive is because you weren't afraid when I was strangling you. And that look is still there, Harley. I can see it now".  
_I know_.  
He fears nothing. He's free. He's _really_ portentous. She made no mistake. She's in the right place. Everything is perfect. This was the goal she was striving for. Throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, she knows she's plunging into a hell whence is no return. All bridges are burned. The mark is overstepped. Now she can feel him, understand him, be like him, while he clutches her, ravenous and possessive. Her thoughts spin as her blood runs violently, losing all sense, tangling wildly.  
_Let… me… breathe… don't let me go… God, I'm kissing the Joker… no… run away… now… I love you… mine... I love you… yours… I…  
_"Open your eyes, Harley".  
_No, I don't want to. Shall we go over this again, Mr. J?  
_Her eyelids are leaden, like limbs struck by paralysis. She feels as if suffering hangover, a massive one.  
_I'm done for. Completely.  
_"Harley, your cell ring is laughable".  
What's wrong with her phone? Is there something not right about Marilyn chirping 'I wanna be loved by you'? And why is the stupid bimbo singing it right now?  
"I don't want to answer" she whines running her fingers on his face. All his face, wound by wound. The deeper scars. The lighter ones. The clay he was sculpted from. She thinks he's gorgeous.  
"Give it to me. I'll hand it back to you with a couple of extra new functions".  
Yes, the dossier confirmed that. The bomb changed into a surplus internal organ. Monstrous and brilliant.  
"And as a ring tone, a merry circus melody…" she tells him when the phone stops ringing. Why not try to ferret him out?  
It's terrifying to see his expression turn so gloomy. He doesn't like the topic, exactly as she imagined.  
"Don't push it Harley, I'm not famous for my patience".  
_Are you mad at me, Mr. J? I want your smile to return.  
_"When you'll be out of here will you teach me how to use knives?" She has no doubt that sooner or later he'll be free again. And she will be at his side. She'll look after him forever.  
Her clown prince is happy again. Everything is fine.  
"We're going to start with firearms, since you already have some familiarity with them" he says, and she is surprised to find the dig hilarious.  
Maybe she pulled the damn trigger. Maybe not. It really does not matter.  
_I don't want to leave…  
_"There's a masked ball tonight. I'm going there dressed as Harlequin, as you like it. I wish you could be with me. Why can't you come with me, Mr. J? Why can't I tell you what needs to be said in such occasions? Why can't you drive me home? Why can't I invite you in? It will never work out… My best friend doesn't like you…"  
_What in the world am I blurting out? What time is it? I must go to Pam's place to get dressed…  
_"Because we don't resemble any _case_, Harley. Remember. From now on you'll be _strange_, and there's nothing you can do about it. About your best friend, it can be solved".  
"And how? Pamela hates you. She'll hate me too once I tell her what happened here".  
"Just get rid of the best friend. Simple as that. Who's coming with you at this masked ball? Who's going to see my Harlequin before I do?"  
Discovering how possessive he can be, hearing the hiss coming out of his lips is exhilarating.  
"A friend… Friends. Why do you want to know? What does it change?"  
She knows, but wants to hear it from him. Poor Jonathan. If only he could know…  
"Because… you see, Harley… I may well be used to proceed on a random course, but I still want to know who do I have to kill first, once I'm out of here".  
He's still grinning, but she knows he's not joking at all. Poor, poor Jonathan. What Joy. He's really hers then. This is more than she ever dreamed of. And maybe she can make it even funnier.  
"Try and guess it on your own. Puddin'".  
She sees his homicidal fury, so powerful it can't be controlled, come alive again, as the crazy murderer nobody but her understands grabs her by the face and pours hatred into her eyes.  
"Perhaps I'll kill you both. Then you will know that I prompt the joke to come and you're just my straight man. And that…"  
"And that I'm yours and yours only. I know" she ends in his stead while pulling him close for another kiss.  
_  
_

_Fear is withering the soul  
At the point of no return.  
We must be the change  
We wish to see.  
I'll come into your world,  
See through your eyes.  
I'll try to understand,  
Before we lose what we have._

_We just can't stop believing  
'cause we have to try.  
We can rise above  
Their truth and their lies._

_See who I am,  
Break through the surface.  
Reach for my hand,  
Let's show them that we can  
Free our minds and find a way.  
The world is in our hands,  
This is not the end._

(Within Temptation, _See who I am_)


	10. Masquerade

AMOUR FOU – X

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

**Interlude n°2  
"Masquerade"**

_Creatures kissing in the rain  
shapeless in the dark again  
in the hanging garden  
please don't speak  
in the hanging garden  
no one sleeps_

catching haloes on the moon  
gives my hands the shapes of angels  
in the heat of the night  
the animals scream  
in the heat of the night  
walking into a dream  
  
(The Cure, _The Hanging Garden_)

Face powder must be applied compact and uniform. She doesn't want to create wrinkles and signs that aren't actually there. She chose to be a porcelain clown, smiling and joyous.  
A black pencil with soft tip to contour the eyes, to the cheekbones, the eyebrows, shady imitation of a mask concealing the Harlequin's true face.  
The rigid brush moves on the eyelashes turning them into a bewitching coal barrier.  
Then the lips, shiny, dark, red, bloody, on the stage her face has become. Lips belonging only to him.  
_If only you could see me, my bellowed clown prince of chaos… If only you could see how made to be by your side I am…  
_  
Commissioner James Gordon hasn't had the 'pleasure' of meeting doctor Harleen Quinzel yet, but talking with her on the phone has been enough to make him determine immediately that she'll never be a person to elicit his sympathy.  
She had called him back, after he vainly tried to phone her in the afternoon. Jim Gordon strove to be extremely polite.  
"I would like to talk to you personally. Would you mind coming to the police station tonight? An informal talk".  
He must know where she stands concerning the Joker. Knowing the results of her survey is the only advantage that would help the prosecutors ensure justice is done. But that little fink, Quinzel, decided to be uncooperative immediately.  
"I'm not summoned officially, commissioner?" she asked with her fresh, merry voice.  
_Nobody_ can afford to have a fresh, merry voice in Gotham, these days. Jim Gordon finds it an insult to their big common tragedy of being forced to live in such a cesspool of vice and madness.  
"Of course. Just the time of a friendly chat" he replied, with the hope of cutting it short.  
Usually people… _fine, honest people_, make no fuss whenever a policeman asks anything, but Quinzel was soon proved a tough nut. _Or simply a… nut?_  
"No". Sharp and without hesitation.  
"I'm sorry?" he asked her incredulously.  
"It's Fat Tuesday and I have a gorgeous costume, am dying to have some fun and have to attend a ball with my friends. We're going to be at 'No Man's Land' after ten. Table 31. We booked months in advance. No way I'm renouncing that for an informal meeting with you in a squalid police station. If you want to talk with me, feel free to come. Who knows, maybe you will also discover a taste for making merry and lose that beaten dog look you always have on TV interviews. Heavens, you could bloody well smile every now and then, commissioner!"  
Jim Gordon briefly considered if there was ground to arrest her, but sighing realized it wasn't the case. This soured his mood while he waits for Barbara to be back with the kids. She took them to the masked parade: Gotham metabolizes her mourning fast, but the wounds are still there.  
Sometimes Jim Gordon feels that there are no more places to regroup in. His job is wearing him down. He can't keep a thing under control anymore. The past week has been hell. The Gotham Times blew up the 'Riddler' case and distorted some declarations he made. A hacker breaks into the police's system, slipping riddles and moronic puzzles in, and now everybody's sure that a new supervillain is making himself felt. As if the city desperately craved to be frightened. And things aren't going well at home, especially with his two 'Barbaras'. Ever since he faked his own death to capture the Joker, and especially the time she and the kids spent as hostages of Harvey Dent, his wife hasn't been the same. And his little darling… his Babsy, precious little Barbara, avoids even stroking from him. He asked her why, hoping it would turn out to be a very precocious phase of adolescence, and her answer left him stunned.  
"As if I don't know you only care for Jim. The guy with two faces said so. And you replied it was true. Had he chosen me you'd have left me to be shot, I know".  
He told her it wasn't true, over and over until his mouth dried, to no avail. He'll have to win her trust back, but doesn't know where to start. Every time he thinks what would have happened had Dent forced him to choose between one of his children's lives he trembles. He won't be able to lie to himself any longer.  
_But it didn't happen. And I love my daughter. I'd die for her. How can I let her see that?  
_Dent is dead. The Joker is locked up. And yet the true losers are him, Batman and the common people. All of them. But in spite of this they get in costumes, go into the street, dance, cheer, laugh… Forget.  
_Perhaps they're all crazy. Perhaps we're all crazy.  
_  
Tonight Bruce Wayne wears his usual mask. Rachel was right: Batman is the truth, the billionaire playboy the reassuring lie. But recently even Batman started lying. Instead, Bruce can imbue a whiff of truth in his day to day recite. No one expects to see him smile.  
"_We're so sorry, Mr. Wayne_".  
"_Our condolences, Bruce_".  
"_We know you were very close to poor late Rachel_".  
"_A tragedy_".  
"_Such a tragedy_".  
No, a murder. It wasn't chance. It wasn't bad luck. It was a meticulously planned trap.  
_And you talked about chaos, you mad clown? Hailed chaos? You're the first who doesn't follow those tenets. You're a slave to _your _rules_.  
Sardonic. This evening seems to be made for him. Masks, costumes, an explosion of colors, in town and up there, his penthouse, for the umpteenth party. And yet he can't enjoy it. He can't play with the other clowns. Voices accumulate: it seems that the prosecutors won't limit to asking a life sentence.  
_Will they do what I didn't dare?_ he wonders, taking a chalice of champagne from a tray Alfred offers him. Further: _he's crazy. What would a sentence have to do with justice? Although I _know _that would also mean victory to him, proof that there's no difference between us and him.  
_There's no point in thinking about it, he has no say in the matter. He captured him, but can't decide his fate. He'd rather forget his existence, but his laughter and words devour his thoughts like a metastasis.  
A goddess in blue asks him to dance. Bruce Wayne postpones. He doesn't feel like partying, yet he distributes smiles and behaves affably. He should know them all under the masks: they're his guests and he read the guest list. Some, however, are so artfully disguised that he couldn't stick a name to them.  
The odalisque in green… Impossible. He doesn't know who she is. Surely he never met her before: one does not forget such a female. The seductress raises her chalice in his direction. Bruce Wayne can't help but elbow his way to her, like in a corny romance movie, although it's nothing of the sort. He just _has_ to know who she is, his instincts command him to.  
She does not move, and waits patiently for him to reach her. When they finally are face to face she simply says him "Hi Bruce. Finally, we meet".  
"With whom do I have the pleasure…" he starts saying before losing himself into her infinite, siren eyes. Where did she come from?  
"Talia Ducard" she answers extending a hand, as a shock runs through his spine. "My father spoke very often about you. He sends his regards".  
"Talia Ducard" Bruce Wayne repeats. Yet another illusion. The bearer of some supposed immortality. "Talia al Ghul, you mean. Are you really his daughter? Ra's al Ghul's daughter?"  
Her laughter makes his head spin. She moves a mane of dark hair from her face and looks straight into his eyes. "My father had warned me you'd be skeptical".  
"Your father's dead. I never believed his fables of immortality, so spare me the song and dance".  
The woman's gaze becomes brazen without dropping an ounce of its charm. Later Bruce Wayne is going to feel burning remorse for the unmistakable knot he feels in his stomach, the almost maddening sudden craving that ultimately will lead him to lower his guard.  
"I'm puzzled, Bruce. My father should have warned me that you were so tall, elegant and beautiful. I could have spared any feeling of resignation confronted with the idea that you were to be my husband".  
_Come again?_  
"You're crazy. And your father is dead".  
Weddings arranged by a supposedly immortal enchanter. Now he's heard it all.  
_The woman I loved has died too recently… I must not look into this witch's eyes. I must not.  
_"Why are you in Gotham? Vengeance? Is this what you're looking for? You're also into the League of Shadows, I suppose, so Batman should not hesitate to fight you".  
Talia al Ghul's calm and collected expression doesn't change one iota. "How ironic. You're the only one not wearing a mask tonight. Afraid that someone might recognize you?" She empties her glass, then her grin becomes enigmatic. "No vengeance, Bruce. Not yet. I'm here to bring someone who shall someday hopefully prove useful to me out of a quandary. But this doesn't concern you for the time being. Are you asking me to dance?"  
_Stay away from her_, the voice of his reason repeats insistently. But it's Carnival, even a man like him has the right to be irrational this very night. He offers her a hand. The orchestra is playing 'Moonlight'.

Pamela Isley would have rather disappeared, said goodbye to everything her life had been just two days before, left behind the two-legged beasts so sure that their lot was lording over that agonizing world, cut all ties with her fellow men, which she can't consider as such any longer. Her own revelation was quick and cruel. Pamela Isley knows there's no way back. Still she's here, and for a reason only: Harleen.  
_I have to save her at least. Save her from herself_, she had reasoned the first time she made her drink the viaticum to the Garden of Eden to come.  
_I have to see her another time_, she found herself thinking when everything was already done. Because she's the only one she cares about, the only one she would like to bring along. It's a glaring weakness, and Pamela Isley is very much aware of that. Soon even her own name won't mean a thing. Why should a Harleen Francis Quinzel do, then? She's also burdened with faults, like anyone else. But she's _her_ Harley.  
_Follow me in this thing, darling. I need you, my precious. Trust Red…  
_But Harley won't come with her, because she's happy now. That's what she told her when they hugged.  
"I missed you so much, Pam. You have no idea. So many things happened… It's wonderful, Pam. He loves me and I love him. I'm happy. I kissed him, Pam. I want to be with him forever…"  
A stream of words, each one as poisoned and stinging as a needle.  
_It's too late_, Pamela told herself. Harleen wants Gotham, not an utopian paradise. She wants the Joker, not her. _Only_ the Joker. They don't share a common destiny. Harleen didn't pay heed to even a single one of her feeble objections.  
"Get off my case, Red. It's that big thing, 'destiny', and I can't fight it. He and me are tied".  
Destiny. Pamela is starting to consider the concept. Maybe this rule is valid for her as well. One does not run into someone like Jason Woodrue by accident. One does not become what she's now by chance.  
"You're as beautiful and lethal as a branch of poison ivy, Pamela. You're the ultimate wonder. And you're just the first of many…" Jason had told her before she stopped his ramble in the only conceivable way.  
_To think that I loved you, Jason. And now you don't matter at all, not only because you left us for a better world.  
_A wan smile forms on her lips hearing Harley mutter a song while she puts the final touches on her makeup. Pamela Isley didn't know getting rid of a human, a human she was swearing love to only a couple of days earlier, could be so easy. It wasn't a vendetta. She doesn't regret becoming what she's now, doesn't regret that her body is little by little acquiring peculiar characteristics. She simply did that because he, like all the rest, had no right to go on breathing.  
And still she's back. She put that magnificent green dress on and wove ivy into her hair…  
…_artificial, sisters… I won't hurt you…as beautiful and lethal as a branch of poison ivy…  
_…she covered her face in makeup and is about to spend the night among the nauseating mob of hundreds of revelers, sweaty and sickening. For Harley. Because she had been planning that evening for a long time. To see her smile.  
_Why are you still important, Harley?  
_What will become of her once she won't be there to be her guardian angel? The Joker will hurt her. The Joker is using her. Pamela knows that for sure, but keeps repeating herself that it's not her business, that Harleen is an adult and can choose for herself and most importantly that she is a murderess, a criminal, and wants to turn common living upside down as much as the Joker wants to.  
_Harley simply chose his evil above mine.  
_She extends her fingers to stroke the petals of a triumphant yellow dahlia. The flower cheers her up without having to resort to words.  
_You will come with me, sisters. I won't be alone if you're with me, my little ones.  
_Everything will be done by sunrise.  
"Done! How do I look?" Harleen chirps coming out of the restroom.  
A superfluous question: she's never been this beautiful. Because that's her true face, which had been waiting to come to the surface until now. On the white face shine a pair of radiant eyes. The symmetry of red and black, the soft fabric: she's magnificent in her simplicity. Pamela adjusts the hat on her well-combed hair. The rattles at the end of the two flabby points will be torture the whole night.  
"You're perfect" she replies kissing her hair to save her makeup.  
_Maybe someday, Harley, we will once again be a duo of troublemakers. Maybe someday…  
_  
James Gordon has to keep his nervousness in check while forced to make his way to the entrance of the 'No Man's Land' club through a crowd of noisy and patently already tipsy masked people.  
_Maybe worse than tipsy…  
_He shows the bouncer his badge while informing him that he's expected at table 31.  
"Just what are you dressed like? Lieutenant Columbo? That thing looks real".  
"This thing _is_ real" he spits back as he finishes counting the piercings on the other man's face. "I'm not here officially, but this could change in thirty seconds if you don't move aside and let me in".  
The black-dressed human mountain isn't fazed. "You're funny, uncle. It's still 80 bucks. First drink is free. Go to the cashier and try to close both eyes tonight, we don't want you to ruin the party".  
_80 dollars_, reflects Jim Gordon grumblingly moving his hand to his wallet.  
Harleen Quinzel will pay for that also. He just can't believe people can really pay that much to shake on a floor bombarded by deafening music and gorging on appetizers that taste like plastic. And a seat must cost at least twice.  
To him 'No Man's Land' might well be the deepest circle of Hell. The lights are too strong and their continual turning on and off makes his stomach churn. For a moment he gets the impression that every Arkham inmate has fled the place and regrouped there. And while he can take the parade of astronauts, witches, maids and cavemen he's less tolerant of the individuals who, without a shred of tact, chose to dress like the Joker. At least the carnival is a mitigating circumstance. The sad thing is that such a sight is an everyday sight right now. Initially they arrested a few, clinging to the fact that they gamboled around concealing their features, thus making easy identification impossible, but even a paltry public defender could set them free within a couple of hours claiming that no law prevents any citizen from wearing makeup of his choice.  
_And after all we're no police state. We can't put in handcuffs teenagers whose only fault is being shallow and easily influenced.  
_Jim Gordon has to shout and order soda with ice to have the barmaid, dressed as a sexy kitten, to point him to table 31.  
He would never have thought that _heartily recommending_ the Joker's shrink to do the right thing would have proven such a daunting task. In the end he finds his target. Around table 31 sit two men and a woman.  
"Doctor Quinzel?" he bellows to overcome the noise.  
The red-haired wood fairy raises her eyes to look at him. Eyes hopelessly wild, with pupils lost in the green sea of the iris.  
_She's out of herself. What is she taking?  
_"No, commissioner. She's not doctor Quinzel" the guy sitting to the woman's right informs him, and right then Gordon recognizes him under the makeup and gear of the Wizard of Oz Scarecrow.  
"Crane? What the hell are you doing here?"  
"Partying. Any law against it?" the former head of Arkham Asylum asks back with his customary cocky grin. "Allow me to do the introductions. Doctor Pamela Isley, in the dainty queen Titania's robes, and my friend Jervis Tetch as the Tin Man. We didn't know you were to join us, otherwise we would have asked you to play the Cowardly Lion to complete the trio. Doctor Quinzel, whom you're currently searching for, is the tiny red and black Harlequin shaking on the floor amidst three Cuban bodybuilders leaving me to hold a candle. I'll never understand women".  
The Joker's therapist. The woman who'll determine his fate. Behind him Tetch mumbles something to the effect that the Wizard of Oz is 'rubbish compared with Carroll's Alice'. But James Gordon is looking at the blonde girl and can't suppress a shudder. The little clown has a ghostly white face and sports a painted malevolent smirk. It's not just a mask: there's more. He would like to persuade himself that he's blowing stuff up, that there's no reason to worry, that she's just a girl at a party.  
_And yet she seems his mirror image…  
_Yin and Yang. They can't have entrusted the Joker to her. They can't.  
The girl takes notice of him and saunters off the dance floor "Commissioner Gordon, do you know you're _much_ more pleasant to look at in person? I didn't think you'd really come" she says sitting down.  
"How do you think we can talk with this noise?" he asks. "And since when it's fine for a psychiatrist to go carouse with a patient?" he adds glaring at Jonathan Crane.  
He doesn't like that he's free. Well, he stirred no trouble since he was released. He works at a bookstore, has joined a chess club and helps old ladies cross the street, but James Gordon can't trust his façade as a model citizen.  
"No no no" Quinzel protests shaking her head, hair and hat. "Pamela is carousing with Jonathan, not me. I'm carousing with…" the diminutive doctor snaps her fingers nervously, then points at the Tin Man. "… with him… with… Jervis, that's it". And with a hand wave silences an attempt of protest from Crane.  
James Gordon sighs resignedly. "Some company. Tell me, doctor Quinzel, by your most reputable medical experience, what kind of drug did your friend here take? She's evidently stoned. Is it crack?"  
"No 'doctor Quinzel' tonight, just call me Harley Quinn" the woman replies slightly piqued. "And Pamela is alright. She's just intermittently claustrophobic. She doesn't like closed, crowded spaces".  
"That makes two of us…" he grumbles to himself, then turns again to his interlocutor. "So tell me, how's the Joker doing at Arkham? Is he bored? Does he have visitors? What did you make of it?" He realizes he's somewhat stirred, discovering himself really hoping that this Harlequin is really as capable as they'd have him believe her. And that, above everything, she understands that sometimes one must turn a blind eye to madness, pretending it's not there.  
The psychiatrist indulges in some slow sipping of her drink before replying. "The survey reached judge McLean's desk tonight. I'm sorry, there's concretely no time to make me change my mind. Your Joker needs therapy, not a cell in some top security prison".  
Exactly as he'd imagined. Unfortunately his concept of madness isn't similar to the one the Arkham analysts have.  
"Doctor, I talked with that man. He's absolutely lucid and in control of his actions. His logic is faultless, if absolutely warped. He's just a murderer, without mercy or scruples".  
The woman shakes her head. "The uninitiated have this problem, that they think 'madness' equals 'craziness'. You simply can't conceive the mentally sick that's not frothing at the mouth or babbling gibberish while sitting in a corner rocking back and forth. And you're wrong. Not that it surprises me: after all it's not different from assuming that a public attorney is irreproachably honest or a policeman is an incorruptible paladin of the law. You were there when Harvey Dent died, weren't you? Tell me about it. Did you come up with this martyrdom baloney or were you forced to work out the details before proceeding?"  
James Gordon can feel the blood drain from his face, and suddenly feels like grabbing that mocking clown by the neck until that cocky gin has vanished.  
"Come on, ask me how I heard about it. So I might tell you that a close friend of mine, well abreast of the facts, told me everything about it" she insists ignoring the looks from her friends, suddenly extremely interested in the conversation.  
"You're rambling, doctor. I guess it's what happens when you're among loons all day, isn't that so, _doctor_ Crane?"  
He can only bluff at this point. Hopefully he could even persuade her that the Joker lied to her. It's not so hard to believe. But miss Quinzel points her index at him, mimicking a gun.  
"Nice attempt, commissioner, but being able to tell when someone is lying is one of the first skills we're taught. My _friend_ was telling the truth. You, on the other hand, are sweating right now. Isn't that so, _doctor_ Crane?"  
"Leave me out of this, Harley" the man entreats. "Even if I agreed with you about the commissioner's fit of panic, and I do, I beg you to remember that I'm disbarred, so I couldn't even offer council".  
_What a nuthouse._  
What's blondie aiming to? Is she somehow blackmailing him? Is she threatening to let what she knows concerning the Dent business filter to the press? Her motives are unclear to him.  
"So what now, doctor?"  
He'll dig out something on her that will have her spend a few nights in jail, even if it were just a fine not paid. It's a matter of principle now. He's got nothing going for him now. He felt a complete fool when he realized where he'd heard her name first: the cover of a book on Barbara's bedside table.  
"_What now_?" giggles the clown. "It was you who came looking for me, commissioner, to preach at me with the conceit of a stalwart of the law, not me. All I have to tell you is that your job was over once you caught the Joker. Now let me do mine and let judges and lawyers do theirs. It's that simple".  
_No, Gotham does not deserve you_, Jim Gordon reflects. _Gotham doesn't deserve your sacrifice, Dark Knight. Gotham is full of people like her. Faced with the truth, she should admire you for the bravery you demonstrated, or learn something from the moral lesson you imparted us, yet this woman can only see a lie. She chooses the Joker's psychosis over our attempt to give Gotham her innocence back.  
_He doesn't shake her hand before leaving: that's something he reserves for those he feels respect for, and this is not the case.  
"As long as your work doesn't leave the bounds of law, doctor. And I have something like a hunch that it's going to happen soon. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen, ladies".  
He realizes how much he missed the cool night air only outside the club. He would like to walk home to clear his head, but he came with his car, and is not so careless as to walk through three neighborhoods so late. Not even with his gun by his side.

_She spiked my drink. There's no other explanation.  
_Bruce Wayne feels his knees buckle while he places a champagne bottle into an ice bucket. He didn't want it to happen. It was stupid, emotive and utterly unreasonable. To end in bed with the gorgeous and surprisingly chaste daughter of one of his worst enemies is something Batman would never do. This is Bruce Wayne's way, the way of the man everyone thinks Bruce Wayne is, a man who really doesn't exist. So how could it happen?  
_Because she spiked my drink.  
_It's the only remotely plausible answer. He's going to regret it somehow, although he doesn't know how yet. Remorse, presumably. Wasn't that after all a betrayal, the fact that _she_ is dead notwithstanding?  
_Or possibly _because _she's dead… that renders it all more horrid… Horrid?  
_There's nothing horrid in Talia al Ghul, unless she can really hide it well. Most assuredly she didn't come to Gotham solely to seduce him. She mentioned helping someone in trouble, which unfortunately rings quite a few alarm bells with him. It's time for some hearty talk: he won't let her leave without getting the whole truth out of her. And he won't let himself be spellbound by her wiles again. Of course he'll be polite. The champagne is for her. He likes her, to his chagrin. There's nothing he can do about it except steeling himself to regain self-mastery so that their night of sex remains an isolated episode.  
_You'll tell me what you're really after, Talia al Ghul_, he thinks reentering his bedroom tray in hand, only to discover he will have to drink alone.  
He's not overly surprised that she managed to literally vanish under his nose, She's a Shadow after all, like he is and always shall be, although his choices were diametrically opposed to Ra's.  
All considered, he's not angry. Amused, rather. Perhaps captivated. That's how she'll sooner or later sink a knife into his back. He has no doubts about it. What's left of the daughter of his archenemy, his lover of one night are a ring and a card on the pillow. A blue stone on 24 carat gold and a few sparse, definitive words.  
"_With this ring, I gladly marry you_".  
Bruce Wayne grins. _You nut_.  
They'll meet again. Probably as enemies. For now he just wears the ring around his little finger and pours himself a glass.

The moon is huge tonight. Harley Quinn, diminutive clown, is watching it from a slice of grass that was spared from Gotham's asphalt. They're no the only ones who thought ending the night at Robinson Park was a good idea but, the gloomy anticipations of that revolting midget, Jonathan's friend, whose name is Jervis Whatshisname, notwithstanding…  
…_and you're going to pay, Jonathan Crane, for bringing such a hideous one along for my Pam…  
_… there are no maniacs or robbers around. Just masked people like them. But they're insignificant to Harley Quinn: she's looking up to the moon, painting with a finger a fictitious red smirk on its white face.  
_Are you sleeping, Mr. J? I wish you were here. Do you miss me when I'm not with you?  
_Part of her thinks this is a destructive declination of delirium, but it's too small a part to command attention. It in fact was KO'd this afternoon.  
"Can I kiss you, Harley?" Jonathan asked her, returning to the role of the goofy, awkward teenager.  
And she told him the truth. "I'm sorry. Something happened today, and I love another".  
She felt sorry for him, even if vanity sparkled in her seeing him dismayed. He took the blow well, if it was a blow at all: she's not sure that brilliant doctor Crane can really have feelings. He already regained his poise and now seems way more interested in discussing with that hideous little guy the snippets she gave him about Harvey Dent. Let them spread the word. Wasn't that the reason Mr. J confided with her, after all? Let Gotham start asking questions. Let her know that the Joker triumphed, in truth.  
Harley Quinn flashes a smile to the moon.  
_You're too awesome for this petty city, Puddin'. We'll turn it from the inside out, surely?  
_A never-ending, all hours, anarchic carnival. It will be glorious. Pamela will also love it, she has no doubt about it. And Mr. J won't have to get rid of her, like he threatened to do.  
_Pamela…  
_Harley Quinn stands up, wondering where she might be. She looks around but sees just Jonathan and his disgusting friend and, scattered on the lawn, other groups of masks or couples. Then she spots in the distance her unmistakable hair, confused among the trees.  
She's been acting strange all evening. There's something wrong with her. Sadly, as that pesky commissioner said, she doesn't seem to be fine. Probably Woodrue really went too far with her this time.  
_And she said she was through with him…  
_She runs off and joins her, determined to hear what went on and, should she prove unreasonable, to drag her bodily to the nearest hospital to have her blood cleansed of all the toxins she has running in her vessels. But she forgets all her good intentions when she's left breathless as she realizes that her friend has never been so fetching.  
Leaning against a tree with her right cheek and hands resting against it, she's whispering words Harley can't hear. Her hair glow under the flickering moonlight, her skin is evanescent, her green eyes burning otherworldly.  
"Pam…" Harley Quinn whispers, but truthfully she's unsure it's really her and her friend is not being possessed by some ancient wood spirit.  
_Mother Nature…?_  
"Hello, little darling" Pam says turning in her direction. "This is such a lovely place, don't you agree? One can't believe we're in Gotham".  
It's true. An enchantment. A fairy tale. And every fairy tale has its own kindly fey. "Are you feeling well?" she asks. But it's a stupid question, and she knows that very well.  
_Pam seems to be… in full blooming.  
_"You know, when I saw Gordon come to our table I was scared. I feared he'd come to cart me in". Even her laughter has changed. Heartfelt and light.  
"Cart you in?" Harley Quinn asks. "What for? You're not a criminal, aren't you?" Pamela wouldn't hurt a fly. She's too kindly for this dark world.  
"A criminal…" the earth goddess shakes her head. "Harley, my little one… If only you knew… I'll have to find myself a nom de plume, don't you think? Menacing and intriguing at the same time. Jason compared me with a vine of poison ivy. How do you see that, Poison Ivy, Gotham's most feared villainess, the woman who brought the Joker to tears, and his sidekick, lover and former therapist, the devious Harley Quinn, too".  
"Hey!" Harley protests, letting herself be caught into the game by her friend's laughter. What a hoot, the three of them at large in Gotham, battling each other with metahuman powers in the name of the greater evil and betting on who shall gain the hero's head, like in some comic book for nerdy kids. None of them shoots laser with their eyes, they're merely human.  
_But who's to say that the pantomime must end, right, Mr. J?  
_"You're strange Pam, did you know that?"  
The wood nymph pulls her close. She smells of freshly mowed grass, of resin, of lavender crushed between two fingers. "He will hurt you, wound you in every possible way, use you and finally dispose of you once you won't be of further use to him. You said he loves you. People like him cannot love, Harley. I won't raise the topic again. I know you won't listen, that in your mind this grim tale is the only important thing. I wish I could wake you up, but can't. You just never forget how strong, smart and unique you are. Don't believe him if he ever tries to tell you otherwise".  
She doesn't like the turn the discussion's taking. It sounds like goodbye. She isn't worried by her sombre foresight at all, she just wants to know what happened to her.  
"Tell me what's wrong, Pamela".  
But the other woman simply hands her a key and a card. "If you ever need to lay low go to this address. It's a safe haven. It's the old botanical garden. And I… I left her a few things for you".  
_A hideout? Who needs a hideout? And what does it have anything to do with the fact that…  
_"Pam, he's not the monster everyone makes him out to be. Not with me. Just today he managed to bring out the pain I'd kept bottled inside for a long time. I felt free for the first time in years. I'm not dreaming, Pamela. You don't know what he's like when we're together. It's like we understand each other on every level. Pam… you're so beautiful tonight, I can't even look".  
Pamela takes her hand. "Pam? I'm Ivy, darling" she says with a wink. "Time to go. Tomorrow in court you'll have to look rested".  
The hearing. She didn't think about it the whole evening. It seems so out of place as a topic. Her anxiety rears its head, and clutches her stomach.  
"Just like the night before an exam. God, some memories…" she remarks.  
Pamela flashes her smile. "I don't know what I'm supposed to wish you, Harley. I'm selfish, and worried. But I'll always be in your corner, remember that".  
_I know. What would I do without my Pamela?  
_The magical moment is over the moment they return, hand in hand like little girls, by their goofy partners. The ball is winding down. Something will be over once the sun sets, although Harley Quinn, now Harleen Quinzel again, doesn't quite know what. She can only wish the beginning of something new and wonderful will follow it.

Ian Everton harbors not the slightest sympathy for the guy he has under special surveillance. If there's a god, and he loves his children at least a little, tomorrow that weirdo will be moved to the place he really belongs to, Blackgate. He's not so sure it will happen, really: judge and jury may take some time to reach a decision. But that's the way the thing will go, eventually. Nobody in Gotham truly wants that monster to be declared mentally ill.  
_We just want him to pay.  
_Morales is too nice to him. Before landing blows on him he waits for provocations. Everton sees things from a totally different angle. After all, that hideous clown always struck at random. And he deserves neither compassion nor sympathy, which apparently isn't clear to the blonde doctor. The way she pours kindness and affection on this psycho is revolting.  
_But where's your good fairy now, filthy monster?  
_Tonight the patient is crossing his boundaries. For the past hour he's been droning on that he wants his scarf back. The scarf doctor Quinzel unwisely gave him.  
_The hell was she thinking? He could have hanged himself with it, or strangled someone.  
_After crippling dr. Connor for life and attacking his current therapist the Joker has been a model patient. But one such as him cannot be trusted. And there's more: a small revenge that gratifies him. That the Joker has fallen head over heels for his charming shrink is clear to see, but that she apparently returns the feeling sends him into a boiling rage. Surely this isn't something Ian Everton would discuss with his wife, but in there doctor Quinzel is one of those ladies who stir certain appetites, despite her always having proved unattainable. That she looks to be interested in that freak and that probably when they're in her study she doesn't contain herself to asking him if his father used to spank him when he was a child are things he can't let slide by.  
"My scarf, nurse Everton. Be kind, return it to me. I want it back. It's mine. It's mine".  
Too much. He goes on like this he won't let him sleep even five minutes. Everton leaves his chair by the security door and turns the ward lights on. The only patient there is looking at him.  
"Ok buddy, be a good boy. You want your little red scarf back? Fine, just stop babbling like that".  
Straightjacket. Sedatives. Gun. Billy club. Time for male bonding. That Joker, he's all talk. Take his knives and bombs away, he's less than zero. Everton keeps the coveted thing in the drawer reserved for him at the table. It's less dangerous than taking it home and be on the receiving end of Trisha's barrage of questions. Doctor Quinzel is such a sweet morsel. The idea that she kept it on tantalizes him. It's not really as good as lace panties, but he knows he can manage with it. He wears it and opens the door to pay the clown a visit.  
"I'm sorry that I have to point it out to you, but that was a gift from my sweetheart. You should find your own girl instead of…"  
Everton throws a big punch to his jaw sending him down, then picks him up and sits him on the chair. He's tall, and no featherweight, but he faced much bigger people and always came on top.  
_Are you laughing? What's so funny about it, you murderous moron?  
_The straightjacket first, then the straps. And every now and then a blow to keep him in his place.  
"Let's talk a bit, Mr. Clown" he says wrapping the scarf around the other man's neck. "No more diva behavior from you. No more thinking yourself into some spotlight. You're just a madman like the others. A freak people in the street turn to look at, then hastily take their gazes from out of disgust. A criminal who has to blow up hospitals to prove he's someone. An impotent faggot who hugs his knives to be able to feel something resembling a man. Well, no more of that. No more. You hearing me?" he insists tapping his index on his shoulder. "No more pantomimes. For every kind gesture from your cute doctor I'll give you a beating such that you'll be on your knees asking to be dragged into prison. So watch your step, genius of crime".  
"Don't. You. Touch. Me" the Joker says slowly, eyes on his hand.  
Yet another demand. "Or?" Everton asks, pushing him some more. "You'll run crying to the blonde teacher?"  
It all happens in a second. In days to come Everton will remember mostly the sound of truncated bone, the second the madman bit his finger off only to spit it out immediately offering him just the indifference of a red-stained smile. Everton gazes at his hand. Blood is flowing copiously.  
_Dress the wound… dress… my finger…  
_He has to reach the alarm. The pain is making him retch. He crashes to the floor thinking he's going to bleed to death, that they won't come in time, that nobody will be able to save his forefinger.  
_The gun…  
_"You linger on her too much for my liking, nurse Everton. I saw you. It's undignified to cast glances at a lady like that, you know that? Especially when said lady happens to be mine".  
…_gun…  
_It never weighted so much. The left grip is not firm but he has no choices now. His wrist is shaking, but his target's close.  
… _the head… it's self-defense…  
_The detonation can be heard three stores above.

Harleen Quinzel doesn't know what woke her up after just three hours of sleep, but there she is lying on the bed, shaking, her heart throbbing.  
_Could it be?_ she wonders while the sudden memory, or maybe just the fragment of a dream, is retrieved.  
She working the afternoons at a 'Milk Shake' joint after school. A boy she only saw once. He gave her a ticket for the circus.  
_"Come to see me and you'll know…"  
_What was the question? She doesn't remember. Did she ask him what he did for a living?  
_It's impossible… Your mind is playing tricks…  
_He was cute, really. But it was over ten years ago, and she can't remember his face. She didn't until a few moments ago. Or perhaps it's an illusion. The superimposition of the face she saw in the costume shop photo on a distant moment in her high school times.  
_It wasn't Mr. J. Stop it, stop it, stop it…  
_She tries to piece together the faint images from that long gone day, the words that mysterious boy told her and her answers. But only the vague sensation of something pleasant lingers on.  
_Destiny has nothing to do with it, Harley. It wasn't him. Don't think about it. You were dreaming.  
_She lies on her back again, forcing herself to stabilize her breath. She closes her eyes, knowing that soon tiredness will prevail sending her to slumber again.  
_But if…_ she meditates briefly, before everything is lost to darkness.

_Fall fall fall fall  
into the walls  
jump jump out of time  
fall fall fall fall  
out of the sky  
cover my face as the animals cry  
in the hanging garden_

Creatures kissing in the rain  
shapeless in the dark again  
in a hanging garden  
change the past  
in a hanging garden  
wearing furs and masks  
  
(The Cure, _The Hanging Garden_)


	11. Meet John Doe

**AMOUR FOU - XI**

**Disclaimer:** "Batman" and its characters are property of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

Therapy n°8

"Meet John Doe"

_The wall on which the prophets wrote  
Is cracking at the seams.  
Upon the instruments of death  
The sunlight brightly gleams.  
When every man is torn apart  
With nightmares and with dreams,  
Will no one lay the laurel wreath  
As silence drowns the screams.  
_  
(King Crimson, _Epitaph_)

The day of the audience Harleen Quinzel is so nervous that she throws up at seven a.m., then undertakes a half-hearted attempt at autogenic training which provides little to no results. The hour after that is divided between notes, gussying up and phone calls.  
The first caller is her mother, after a whole month of complete silence, for pure forgetfulness rather than communication difficulties. Now she's telling her that everyone is in a frenzy, and Harley knows she means the whole Whitehaven hamlet of Gotham, not just her close relatives. She asks if the TV will be there, if she'll be in the newspapers and a plethora of other petty things that once would have sent her mind in a whirl also.  
Harleen meets all the questions with an 'I dunno' and asks how could her mother know that she's the one tasked with the survey.  
"Everyone knows that" is the answer, which she finds not very reassuring. Then it's Wayland's turn. He seems especially optimistic. Harleen wonders if he and his lackeys, _and the slattern funding the whole thing_, corrupted the judge.  
"You sound tense doctor. Don't worry, nobody could make a case for the Joker's sanity without being laughed out of the building".  
_You rotten…  
_Finally Dr. Arkham also checks on her. He gives her very detailed instructions on where to park once downtown and urges her to avoid the main entrance and make her way in through a secondary entrance.  
"There's been turmoil. Doubtless the groundless rumor that the Joker will be present has circulated. If my sources are to be held reliable a lynching might be a possibility".  
_Stay calm. It doesn't matter. The rabble-rousers will have to find another way to vent, there's no way they can reach Mr. J.  
_Harleen realizes she's childishly crossing her fingers. Wayland can tell her to relax as many times as he wants, she'll sigh with relief only after the judge will have sanctioned the patient's treatment declaring him unfit for sentences. Who knows if he's even a bit uneasy this morning. Knowing him, he doubts it. Most probably he finds the entire matter tremendously funny.  
She looks convincing enough, she thinks checking herself in the mirror. As grey as her suit, cool and bespectacled. Everything Mr. J. finds distasteful. But she's doing it for him. Slowly she strokes a sleeve of her red and black costume, draped over a chair. Right now it feels like her skin has been ripped off her in a single stroke.  
_But now I _know _it's all one big comedy. This makes all the difference in the world.  
_  
Jeremiah Arkham introduces the horrible scenario of a death sentence first. He does before they reach the courtroom, commenting the chaos outside and assessing that those people won't find anything less than the defendant's head satisfactory, and well they might get it, should the SA attack their survey. He says it all casually, unaware of the effect such insight has on her.  
The electric chair. She had never contemplated the thought. She tries to recall how many years it's been since the last execution they had there, but her head spins and her blow is covered in cold sweat and all she can think of is a big red pulsating _no_.  
_No no no no no no…  
_"Are you unwell, Quinzel?"  
She feels Arkham's arm holding her steady. A hysteric seizure is a bad, bad idea right now.  
_But they want him dead… they…  
_"No… I'm just a bit anxious… I'm… God, no…"  
"Quinzel". Arkham, brusque and direct, forces her to look at him. "No tears and no hysterics. Spare them for later. _Later_. Right now I'm not overly eager to discuss _how much_ your relationship with the patient went out of bounds. I don't care about gossip, and I don't care about you right now. I entrusted you with this case because you promised me that our institution would account itself well: it's time to prove me that I didn't make a mistake."  
When he speaks like that resisting is impossible. Harleen immediately remembers where she is and why. She also has a role to play.  
"Gossip… don't even start with that, at least you. I don't want to see my patients dragged through the mud. _None_ of them. Illness must not be punished, the simple idea is horrid. Even when we're talking about him".  
Arkham nods. "This is precisely what you must tell the judge, Harleen. It's the founding principle upon which my grandfather based the asylum".  
_Before going insane himself…_ thinks Harleen. They all will, eventually.

For a trial like that Harleen Quinzel had expected an immense courtroom, filled with people. Instead, the proceedings will be held behind closed doors in a rather small environment.  
_It's not a process, it's an audience, and you have to set things so that once the real trial comes it will go as desired. Don't lose sight of it.  
_A few journalists manage to sneak in, only to be immediately thrown out by the bailiffs.  
The vice-SA throws her a not-too-kindly glance, but at least he's wearing an anthracite suit.  
_You don't look so icy today, lawyer.  
_The defense is fully deployed, but she guesses that Wayland will obviously do the talking. And beyond that, there is her. She doesn't know who she is, or why she's allowed to attend, but a look is enough for Harley to realize that woman is the secretive 'benefactor' of Mr. J.  
_Where did she come out of, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan?  
_She's no front, and surely not a concerned old aunt.  
_What are you going to do? Come to visit him in Arkham to whisper sweet nothings to each other dreaming of when he'll be free? Not a chance, princess. He's with me now. And if you so much as protest, I'll kill you both…  
_Against any logic, those thoughts make her nervousness disappear. He's better roasted on the electric chair than with that siren or any other woman.  
"Doctor, probably the judge will ask you specific questions…" Wayland tells her, as if those were the latest news.  
_Sure he will, otherwise why would my presence have been requested? I've been through this very procedure for Jonathan Crane's case, you dolt!_ Does the guy think she's a moron?  
"Doctor Arkham, I'll ask for a few words from you as well, if you don't mind".  
She doesn't have the strength to get enraged. She's young and a woman. Wayland is merely assuming she needs some sort of tutorage.  
_Fine. Have the old man speak, if you so wish.  
_The vice-SA passes by and hisses an insult to her, or so she thinks. Maybe he simply greeted her.  
"You're too fidgety. They won't take you seriously if you don't calm down".  
Harleen turns to the mysterious woman. She has a strange accent and smirks assuredly.  
"What?" she asks, getting close to her.  
_What is your business with Mr. J? Is there anything between you?  
_"You're letting your feelings show through. It's a mistake".  
Harleen scrutinizes her carefully. No, she and the Joker don't look like they'd be a convincing couple.  
"My name is Talia Ducard" the woman says, proffering a hand. "And judging from the look of hatred you're directing at me, doctor Quinzel, I'm starting to believe that this matter is becoming personal to you. If it can bring you some relief, I assure you that I never met the individual who calls himself the Joker personally, nor I have any form of personal involvement with him. The only thing we have in common wears a black cape and is around by night".  
_This chick is a whack job. She's paying Wayland to have the Joker freed because she has a problem with Batman? Doesn't make much sense.  
_"Excuse me, I'm not sure I see what you mean…" Harleen tells her.  
It can't be. She just watched her for five minutes and already she's pointing out her shortcomings. Is it so hard to hide her feelings?  
_I have to, at least for the hour to come. His life depends on it, now.  
_"I think you understand what I said very well", the mysterious Talia Ducard insists. "The judge is entering. You'd better return to your chair".  
Harleen inhales deeply. Thanks to the natural process that always factors before an important event, the beginning of the hearing calms her quickly. She commits every word to memory and immediately realizes that things are going as satisfactorily as they can.  
Elderly judge David McLean, thin and stern-looking, looks very much set, despite vice-SA's undaunted recitation of the charges. Finally Harleen commits his name, Fergus Ballard, to memory, although she's sure she will forget it in a matter of hours, then concentrates on the charges, by now very familiar to her. They give her the creeps. It's such a wide range, it's almost grotesque. From breach of the peace to manslaughter, passing through every intermediate state.  
_I think I like this one especially. "Stripping a person of his dignity by removal of the above's body parts, with mocking intent…", "attempted assault aiming at rape…" Attempted? Doesn't sound like you…  
_They threw the book at him, no doubt about it. A lifetime wouldn't be enough to do what those 234 pages describe.  
_And…  
_The number of questions she'll have to ask him grows. How little does she know him still?  
_Petty and hypocritical. You can't keep his pace, so you resort to mudslinging.  
_Harleen plays her part perfectly. She repeats for the judge what she believes with full earnest: the unidentified man, yet another _nobody_ that laws and rules can't keep a focus on, can't be sent to a common jail. That person without identity is clearly mentally unbalanced. It's her turn, now, to rattle off his behavioral pathologies as she detected them. It's her ground. She makes no mistakes. The judge listens, Ballard seethes, but she ignores him even when he tries to cast a shadow over her credibility, 'accusing' her of dismissing Jonathan Crane from the hospital arbitrarily. It's the blunder Wayland was waiting for: he has an easy time pointing out for the assembled that, on the contrary, Crane's recovery is proof of her capability. She only wishes the judge would just make it quick.  
"I want him in court, your honor". Ballard immediately shows his sternest countenance. "I couldn't even see him. If you'll let me ask him the right questions I'll be able to demonstrate beyond any doubt that the individual in question is perfectly sane and, as such, liable of being judged and sentenced".  
Harleen is about to reply but it's doctor Arkham, with all the politeness of a diligent sophomore, who asks to speak.  
"Would you let me, your honor? Premising that here the whole work of our team is being questioned, I wish to make you privy of the events that occurred last night which for the time present prevent the patient from appearing before this court. There's been a bit of trouble with one of the guards. The subject cut off one of his fingers with his teeth and our employee had no choice but shooting him. Now, the object of our interest is in bad shape and under surveillance. I must stress it: he used his teeth to cut a finger off one of his guards. Such behavior _can't_ possibly be construed to be befitting a sane individual".  
_It's too much_.  
Harleen claws at her gown. They shot him. Mr. J was shot. Mr. J… Her breathing becomes convulsed, with no chance to regain control. She has to get away from there. She must be at his side, now. Has to know his condition. Arkham, old geezer… Why didn't he tell her? Why let her know about it like that?  
The judge. Ballard. Is it a discussion? She doesn't know. Can't concentrate on it.  
"I studied this case very carefully, Mr. Ballard. I asked a psychiatric opinion, which I haven't done just to discard it once it demonstrates what's almost painfully clear. Know that by insisting with the thesis that the Joker isn't insane, when a simple glance at his identification photos is enough to see things as they are, you are putting your entire credibility at stake. I hope you're aware of that. We're here to minister justice, not to mete out vengeance to please the masses".  
She can't understand what's going on anymore. He's hers? The judge said he's hers? That, whatever sentence he's going to get, he'll spend it at Arkham to be rehabilitated?  
"Harleen…" Arkham puts a hand on her shoulder. "It's not over. It is likely that from now on we shall be targeted. But for the present, it is certain that after the sentence we'll be allowed to begin a cycle of specific therapy".  
_Mine.  
_She finds herself running out of the courtroom. She has to reach him now. She won't calm down until she'll have him out of danger before her eyes.  
She forgot about the press but the flashes remind her abruptly of where she is. She's drowned by questions. They want to know what will be of the Joker and if she really thinks she could cure him, they rub salt into her wounds reminding her of the different ways the Joker hurt the city. And, of course, they insinuate stuff. Who's this women? The one with a smile plastered on her face who's asking her if her relationship with the Joker is truly a sexual one. Literally.  
_It's not, but I was planning to change that tonight_, she wants to reply spitting at her the fury she feels is coursing through her veins.  
"I'll have my lawyers contact you about this rumor" she says instead. Rank defamation.  
"Folks, we'll release an official statement very soon. Now allow us to leave". Arkham, self-possessed and reassuring, gains passage for her.  
"My car…" Harleen tells him. "I parked it… I can't remember where…" Her nerves are cracking. She hope there are no more paparazzi around. But all considered she cares little: she has to reach Mr. J. "Who shot him, dr. Arkham? How is he? Tell me how is he".  
"Do control yourself, Harleen. Everton is fine. Thankfully he underwent successful surgery".  
Everton? What should she care about that accursed chimp and his damn index? He shot Mr. J…  
She boards dr. Arkham's car, allowing herself to be persuaded that she is in no condition to drive. He'd better drive full speed. A message appears on her cell phone. _"I'll contact you soon. Should you and your soul mate need anything, let me know. Talia"._  
Just what she needed now. Her soul mate…  
"What happened, dr. Arkham? How did it happen?" Harleen asks, regaining a semblance of composure.  
Traffic lights seem to be plotting against her. Their red eyes just won't stop scrutinizing her. Plus, a thin yet heavy rain is starting to pour, slowing their progress.  
"We don't know, Harleen. Everton will tell us once he's in the condition to. Security heard the noise and found Everton down on the floor and the Joker tied strictly with a bullet in his shoulder. Clearly, Everton reacted to being attacked".  
How convenient. This reconstruction spares Arkham many headaches. Self-defense. All she knows is that there's one massive hole in it.  
"If the Joker was trussed up there was no need to shoot him. It was abuse" she points out.  
_Did you really bite his finger off? Damn.  
_"Indeed, Quinzel, I'm positive that you would have reacted utterly reasonably under the circumstances. A torrent of blood flowing out of your hand arteries would have nary influenced you".  
The old coot is trying his hand at sarcasm? "Don't worry, I'll follow the party line. But this changes nothing between me and the Joker: Everton was careless and I'm sure he can only blame himself for what happened".  
Arkham focuses on the road for a few seconds, then sighs and states his decision. ""I could not do a thing about it nevertheless, Harleen. We're all too much in the spotlight. Everyone knows the Joker was entrusted to you, and I don't want your work to lose its value. Perhaps you should wash your hands of it spontaneously. You said you'd wait for this audience to decide. What's your answer?"  
Harleen grins as a cat-shaped puppet greets her from the back window of the car in front of them. "What are you asking really, doctor? And what answer are you looking for? What would be easier for you? Saving me from the moral slide you're sure I'm falling into, or enduring that the Joker will play along peacefully and smoothly, which he does only when I'm around?"  
She turns in his direction only to discover that his face is showing tension visibly. Not that she minds his opinion. It wouldn't change a thing.  
"Are you positive your emotions are well in check, Quinzel?" he finally asks.  
The focal point. She has to preserve the space she shares with Mr. J now. Nobody has the right to tamper with their relationship. She laughs, almost sincerely. Do they think they know the whole truth? No way about that.  
"Do you want to know how I feel about the Joker emotionally, doctor Arkham? Besides finding him physically repugnant and possessed with a stomach-churning sense of humor? I regard him as our very own diamond mine. I'm sure you're aware of it too: harming him would be foolish. Handling him like just another patient would be an extremely stupid choice. Think of what would have happened if that idiot Everton's aim had been better. Think of it and tell me what would have happened to you, the asylum and us all if we'd lost the greatest criminal in the entire history of Gotham only because a cretin guard felt like playing the inquisitor. We have to preserve him and his mind, doctor, because they will be a bonanza to us. For the rest, I consider those rumors about afterhours ministrations so much dog poo and refuse even to listen. I would like you to do the same".  
The old man sighs. Maybe she convinced him. She's starting to be proud of herself: Arkham always agrees with her in the end.  
_Now get me to his bedside. I want to see him. He's been wounded, and he was alone. He needs me.  
_"Do you have someone, Quinzel? A relationship going? Someone to take you out to dinner and all the rest?" Arkham asks as if it was the natural evolution of their preceding exchange. And she thinks she knows why. Now she has two options.  
Yes. No.  
Neither is false. She has nobody, not in the sense Arkham meant.  
_But since I kissed him he's become _my story.  
"I'm seeing someone I like a lot. Why do you ask?" she replies, putting all the naivety she's capable of to work.  
"Simple curiosity. I think you should enjoy yourself more. Pretend it's your father talking".  
Before the bridge Arkham turns to the left. She watches the street in puzzlement. "What are you doing? Where are we going?"  
"We're having lunch together" the man replies. "One p.m. has come and gone. Don't worry, your patient is safe, sedated and guarded. He won't be missing you".  
Evil, wretched fossil. She can't throw herself out of the car. Not because something is holding her physically: it would simply be a public admission of mental imbalance. And she's not crazy at all.  
_Hold on, Mr. J. I'm hostage to this old imbecile.  
_  
It's not clear in Harleen Quinzel's mind what exactly went on this morning in the courtroom, but surely there will be consequences. The trial will be long. The Prosecutor's Office won't let go that easily but, for the time being, Mr. J has officially become sick. He won't serve his time in Blackgate. The rest will come in due time. Although the uninformed eye might see not much of a difference between a prison and a criminal asylum, she knows full well how big it is. She will take care of Mr. J, preventing others like Everton from hurting him, even if she had to be with him 24/7. And that trigger happy idiot will pay for his actions one way or another. How many hours have been since she last saw Mr. J? Too many. But they're really so few, it was just yesterday. She still finds herself grinning at her own reflection in the mirror of the restaurant toilet.  
_What a surprise. It looked like you were going to eat me alive, Mr. J.  
_Soon now. After a dessert she'll be able to comfort him, reminding him that she'll always be there.  
She takes her glasses off and lets her hair free. This is how Mr. J likes her. She doesn't have to hide with him.  
_Free, free, free… thanks to you. I must return that now. Perhaps I saved your life today, and it still isn't enough.  
_She smiles at Arkham for the remaining minutes. Pretending indifference during the entire meal was not easy, but now it's over. The old man can't come up with another diversion.  
"Anything else?"  
_No. No. Let's get going old idiot. How much time are you going to cost me now?  
_"No, thanks. I'm full".  
Wonder what his wife would say, should anyone inform her that he takes young female employees to fancy restaurants.  
_Pff. There's not the slightest gossip about him. He's probably asexual and put his two children together assembling arts of corpses._  
Almost three. The traffic on the bridge just won't flow. It's as if the entire Gotham population is attempting to invade the Narrows.  
"What's going on here?"  
"Press, networks, protesters. Twice as many as yesterday" Arkham explains, and she realizes she should have guessed. "At six we'll release a statement and end this story to only handle this case by the clinical point of view".  
We_'ll handle?_  
Harleen feels safe again only as the Arkham gates close behind her. Being stalked by journalists like a celebrity isn't nearly as fun as she had believed. Within a minute they stomped her foot and drove a mike into her eye. They'd better keep their distance from her and her man.  
"Where is he? In sickbay, or did you carry him back to his cell?" she asks, slipping the card the correspondent for Gotham Tonight handed her into a pocket.  
"He's down" Arkham replies. "But I believe it would be wise to wait before…"  
Harleen isn't listening to him. When Morales takes a minute too much to let her in she almost throws a screaming fit.  
"He'll be asleep for a long time, doc, but be careful. He pulls aces out of his hole especially when he looks helpless".  
Harleen lets silence be her reply to Morales. Beyond the Plexiglas he doesn't look threatening at all. Just bandaging protecting him from a world that hates him. No straightjacket, no red jumpsuit. Vulnerable.  
_They'll make him catch pneumonia_, she thinks as she enters.  
While 'poor' Everton was rushed to the Memorial, they just quickly extracted the bullet from his shoulder. And they didn't sedate him to avoid him pain, surely.  
"Leave, Paulo. And don't disturb me".  
The guard this time spares on concerned glances. He seems rather sorry.  
"He'll be okay, doc". He speaks as someone talking to a grieving wife. She's not sure she likes it.  
"I really hope so, Morales, or someone is going to pay for it so much, they'll repent the day they set foot in Arkham".  
He was tied up when Everton pointed his gun and fired. It's a fact. That alone would be enough to start an enquiry, but surely Arkham will be able to hide the controversial details and let Everton have his disability pension. And avoid any consequence, obviously.  
_After all who cares if the Joker is used as target practice?_ she thinks, ticking him in.  
Even asleep he's restless. It's the first time she sees him slumbering, and she has such a wide portion of his skin available. She bits her lips, reminding herself to be dignified. This man is wounded. This man almost had a death sentence on him. She really can't start dreaming about him now. _Just for a moment… _she thinks, brushing his clavicle with her fingertips. _I don't want him to ever fall asleep alone again_.  
Surely the cot wasn't designed for two, but she's tiny and doesn't take much space. She takes her shoes off and with the greatest care she's capable of lies by his side trying to not wake him up. Now she only has to close her eyes, lean her head against his good shoulder and imagine that a night they spent together is just over, he about to wake up, a few sweet words, in another, better, secluded place, a room by the sea and just about any image her mind can fish out of her romance novels.  
_What would be your special contribution to my picture? How did you kill the owners of the house to free our love nest from perturbing presences? And how did we get rid of the bodies before dining by candlelight and get into their bed and make love until we're utterly spent?  
_It will happen, sooner or later. _He_ will make it happen. When…  
Suddenly all images disappear from her mind. The room spins around her. An arm grabs her and throws her to the ground. Her hip striker the floor, a moan escapes her lips and she realizes that he simply shrugged her off. She rises her gaze to the cot and finds him glaring at her with still hazy eyes.  
"You do love danger, Harley, do you? What in the world were you doing?"  
"You know what I was doing very well" she protests trying to stand, but he grabs her by an arm and forces her to remain down.  
"Don't move. I like to see you kneeling".  
Harleen doesn't feel like protesting. Metaphorically crawling at his feet has become something of a habit for her, there's nothing odd in doing it literally. She scrutinizes his wounded shoulder: he shouldn't be exerting it. He might ruin the stitching.  
"How are you feeling?" she asks. She wants to hear it from him.  
"Passably pitted" he replies genially. "You really should pick better guards, the ones you have are just bad with firearms".  
Her hand moves without her being able to do anything to stop it, to land on his face violently. He looks surprised for a mere instant, then his laughter grows squeaky and convulsing.  
"Quit it. You knew he had a gun. He could have killed you, do you realize that?"  
"I do" he replies, and the final vowel seems to drag for an eternity.  
Nope, she just can't keep up. She forgets she's dealing with a madman too often.  
"Why?" she asks him.  
Such a stupid question. There are no motivations in his brain, just an explosive amusement park. Didn't he tell her? He enjoys putting his life in danger. He doesn't care about it, he sees himself as expendable.  
"I told you I was going to get my scarf back" he explains with a smile that would want itself to be suave.  
_Lord, it can't be. It has to be another of his jokes.  
_"See, it's a matter of principle. I had asked for it with such politeness…" he insists.  
"You have no principles".  
_Why does talking with you always have to be so tiring?  
_"No, I do. It's just that you all seem to find them very odd".  
The safety door opening prevents her from giving him a piece of her mind. Harleen stands up, brushing the dust off her gown. Just who should be cleaning this room? They should fire him without thinking back.  
She sees Arkham being escorted to the cell by Morales. This interruption might have avoided her a fit of rage.  
_I did not save you from Old Sparky so that you could try your luck at Russian Roulette. If you don't care about your survival, then I will have to take measures to secure it.  
_"Why are you shoeless, Quinzel?"  
Harley tries to invent a persuasive excuse like "I was afraid he could use a heel to stab me in the neck", but Mr. J saves her from the embarrassment of such a big lie.  
"What a honor, Jeremiah Arkham himself has come calling. Happily me and the doctor were just about warming up".  
_Splendid_.  
She should slap him again. He deserves that.  
"I thought it would be a good idea having a word with you, as your practice of crippling my employees is becoming annoying" Arkham says without losing control in the slightest.  
Harley looks alternatively at him and Mr. J. It's an interesting clash.  
The patient looks at him once again, looking bored. "So?" he states indifferently.  
"I shall have to hire new personnel, and they might happen to be elements quite a deal less polite than the ones you've grown accustomed to here". The old man is trying to sound cold and menacing.  
Harleen knows that her Mr. J won't be fooled.  
"Soo-o?" he repeats, then grabs her by an arm, forcing her to sit by his side on the cot, keeping her firmly in place.  
"Let her go…" Arkham takes a step in their direction while Morales quickly draws a dose of sedative.  
Harleen manages to raise a hand, gesturing at both to stop. "Don't. Everything is under control. He won't hurt me. Don't antagonize him further".  
"Hear that?" Mr. J chuckles. "I'm not going to hurt her. She's such a little, sweet thing. Thank you for giving her to me".  
"Quinzel…" Arkham appears beset by panic now.  
"Tell him what you must, doctor" Harleen suggests him. "This chicanery is for you only".  
_For you only…  
_Only a few hours ago she was describing him as physically repugnant. She so wishes that was the reason she's shaking, not because feeling his breath down her neck is making her heart beat faster. She closes her eyes a bit, trying to forget of the warmth of his skin, of his possessive urge that it's proving stronger than the pain he must feel for the wound still open, of the smell of sweat and disinfectant mixing with the one of the sort of soap used in the patients' showers. It's him. Every detail is part of him. And she wants him so much, she has cramps in her gut.  
_Not now…  
_What she dreams, what she wants when she' alone in the dark is her business only, but she's in a cell now and pinning her to his side under the anxious gaze of her boss is not her sick, secret and scary fantasy, but a real, extremely dangerous patient.  
_Breathe, Harley, breathe. Don't let it show.  
_"Fine, let's be done with it". Arkham sounds really furious. "Don't make me reverse my approach to you, young man. No more surprise from now on, or we'll revert to the old school methods. I ensure you, electroshock could fry your brain and make it worse than it's now. Further, we'll install cameras here as well, pointed straight at you. Welcome to the world of special surveillance".  
"Splendid". Mr. J sinks his face in her hair. "Should I ever feel bored I will distract myself threatening the red LED. Tell me doc, any other surprises for me? Something more extreme? Something I should _truly_ worry about? If you don't, then please leave at once. This cookie and me have a therapy cycle going".  
When he runs his tongue on her neck she holds her breath.  
_Why? Why are you doing that? Do you want to drive me completely crazy?  
_"Enough already!" she almost screams, finally. She slips out of his grasp and manages to slip away. She stands up despite the fact that she's still shaking, and jumps when Arkham places a hand on her arm.  
"This can't possibly continue Quinzel, for no reason I could tolerate you being subject to this kind of harassment. Even in our line of work there are limits. The degrading…"  
"Oh, cut it short doc" Mr. J interrupts laughing. "It's part of the cure. And sleep tight. There's a subtle distinction between you and this tasty meat treat that ensures without fail that I won't ever feel the temptation to lay a finger on you. Not even to free the world from your academic presence. I'd bet that you'd be a snore fest even in your death throes".  
"It's all right doctor Arkham. I'd like to check his medication. See you in half a hour in your office for that declaration we discussed about".  
Nope, it doesn't work. Not with other people around. Everything seems wrong. Things go smoothly only when they're alone, when she stops asking herself what's right and what's wrong. Soon it will be so clear that she won't be able to hide it anymore, and what will become of Mr. J and her then?  
"Would you bring me the equipment, Morales? No need to carry him to sickbay".  
"Are you truly sure you still want to be alone with him, Harleen?" Arkham asks while leaving.  
"I told you, he won't hurt me. Don't worry".  
"Soon you'll be telling me that you want to take him home…" her boss says.  
She didn't stop looking into Mr. J's eyes for a second, and it's been as if they'd been in contact with each other without needing to exchange a word. In that cell, with him, she feels perfectly at ease. Everything else, the huge gloomy structure, the island, the entire city could disappear and nothing would change. She's back to herself only when they're alone at last, although she's angry, frustrated and confused.  
"What was that? Have you gone insane?"  
At last a pained frown forms on his face. Mr. J lies down as a veil of sweat forms on his skin. "Is this a rhetorical question?"  
_So you do know what it is suffering… Do you like it?  
_Is there a way out still? A way to return who she used to be? If it's there, she has to find it and save herself.  
"I saved your life in court, know that? Do you care even a little?"  
She's expecting yet another barbed comment, but he remains silent. Possibly he's really tired: he must have a limit, like everyone else. He's a human being after all.  
Harleen washes her hands and sits by his side, helping him to stand.  
"Nothing salvageable. Of course" she remarks observing the binding.  
Just what kind of butcher patched him up? It's a quick, sloppy job. During the following minutes she's simply a doctor. Stitches, disinfectant, gauze. The utmost care. She discovers on his body signs of other gun shots, of knife wounds, of a life lived on the edge.  
"Your hand's as light as a feather…"  
Harleen raises her gaze to look at him. She felt something in the way he said that phrase. Something… _sincere_? She grins privately: it's not the time to get mushy.  
"I think I dreamed of you last night. Maybe. I remembered a boy I saw only once. I thought it could have been you. Isn't it absurd?" Absurd indeed: even she isn't naïve and romantic enough to believe it. "Why don't you escape, Mr. J?" she suddenly asks. "I know you could. So why don't you get away from here? What are you doing here?"  
"I like it here" he replies, and the tenderness she had thought she'd heard moments ago vanishes in one stroke, if it was there at all. "You're completely unaware of it, Harl, but you're absolutely hilarious. I'll leave when the time comes".  
What is he really after? She's not sure she wants to know. She's not eager anymore to keep his secrets. She'd have no choice then.  
The top of his uniform and the scarf, the mishmash of red wool that caused all this uproar, are neatly folded on the only, tiny table bolted to the floor.  
_Thank you, Morales_.  
Those darker spots… Everton's blood. She'll have to take it home and put it in the washing machine. Or perhaps he likes it like that? War spoils.  
He is docile as she helps him get dressed.  
"Try to move as little as possible, or it will take who knows how long to heal the wound".  
Why did he allow himself to be shot? He didn't offer her convincing answers. The next time he could not be so lucky.  
"I want a photo of you, Harley. For the times of intense, melancholy emotional loneliness".  
_Yep. What do you think of when you're alone? What goes on in your mind? Nothing reassuring, that much I'm sure of. The last, very last chance…  
_"It has to end here, Mr. J. This went on far too long. My fault, but it can't continue".  
A resigned "I see" would be enough for her, and it would be over. Then she'd only have to cry her eyes out on her couch gobbling ice cream. Isn't that what has to be done whenever a story ends? But he looks simply amused. Once again. She thinks she hates him.  
"Afraid of going crazy, doctor Quinzel? What a pity. It wasn't a bad incipit. I'm about to get a melodramatic goodbye kiss".  
Harleen doesn't protest. She waits for him, knowing very well that it's not going to be the last by a long shot. She tried. She _pretended_ to try. His mouth is as fierce as she remembered, and she wouldn't want it otherwise. She knows what the next step will be: her aflame body is telling her. For sure she'll have to fight with herself to keep her right to decide _when_.  
"I so love your steely resolution" he whispers in her ear once he leaves her free to breathe again.  
She rests her forehead against his shoulder. "I don't even know your name…"  
She's not changing her mind this time. Harleen Quinzel is dead and gone, and she's not coming back. "I love you and I'm scared. I'm scared. Are you happy now?"  
"This is your tragedy, Harlequin" he replies stroking her hair. "A full blown tragedy. Live it to the last and change it into an operetta before it's too late. Before the curtain falls on the slaughter that took place on the stage. All tragedies end in the same way, but you're my happy mask. Laugh, and make me laugh, Harlequin. Or I'll rip your heart and lips out".

_Between the iron gates of fate,  
The seeds of time were sown,  
And watered by the deeds of those  
Who know and who are known;  
Knowledge is a deadly friend  
When no one sets the rules.  
The fate of all mankind I see  
Is in the hands of fools._

_Confusion will be my epitaph.  
As I crawl a cracked and broken path  
If we make it we can all sit back  
And laugh.  
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,  
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying._

(King Crimson, _Epitaph_)


	12. Spinnin' Round

**AMOUR FOU - XII**

Therapy n°9

"Spinnin' round"

_  
I want my innocence back_

And if you can't give it to me

I will cut you down

And I will run you through

With the dagger you sharpened

On my body and soul

Before you slit me in two

And then devoured me whole.

(Emilie Autumn, _I want my innocence back_)

It all begins after the hearing. In the secluded area closed circuit cameras are placed. Arkham was true to his word. Mr. J didn't mind. Her visits to his cell become side-splitting: they both end up doing faces to the surveillance system. Unfortunately that indiscreet eye limits her movements. To hug him, hold him close and tell him that she loves him she must wait for him to be brought to her office. Then Harleen melts completely. As soon as Morales or whoever else leaves she's upon his lips. It's too wonderful, really.

"You do look enthusiastic, my little pumpkin pie. How about a nice story? It's about a robbery with double murder".

When Harleen is back home she phones Pamela to tell her of her meeting the judge, of the Everton incident and how her love is growing day by day. Pamela doesn't answer.

She finds it hard to follow Mr. J as he gets into details. She loses her concentration watching the way his hair fall on his neck.

"Behave yourself, Harley…" he says when she can't resist the temptation and kisses him slightly under his ear.

Harleen rediscovered the power of a full-fledged frown, just like when she was sixteen, coupled with a few sugary words. "You're my Puddin'. I don't want to hurt you, just pamper you". Sometimes he seems to be irked by such attentions, other times he reminds her that kindness isn't exactly his stock in trade. And she finds anew that what she likes the most is feeling his powerful squeeze, tight and painful, the sensation of being helpless in front of him. Even the discovery of unexpected welts gives her palpitations.

She called Pamela to announce her this newfound vein of masochism. Pamela didn't answer.

-

When Mr. J tells her that he'll teach her how to be useful, she's as elated as a child.

"Plastic explosives" he says.

She gives him paper and pens and discovers that, brusque and nervous as his handwriting may be, he's fastidious when drawing out details.

"Come here, Harley" he mumbles and she makes herself comfortable on his knees. "It's not difficult really, do you see that?" he affirms, regaling her with one of his tender glances. "I wrote the instructions down in full detail. Even a chimpanzee could make it. Still, be very careful".

"Are you implying that I'm dumber than a monkey?"

Frowning indeed. Then she kisses him on his temples, his forehead and hair again.

"I don't want you to blow your fingers off. When I'll decide that I want to see them go, I'll cut them off myself".

_Fair enough…_

Mr. J likes having her around, although Harleen realized he'd never admit it. He keeps trying to make her believe that every caress he hands out is but a favor she'll someday be called to repay for. Harleen pretends to not read through this. Why deprive him of the pleasure of showing himself insensitive to such cuddling? She's not a child, she can see very well when a guy wants her. Poor Mr. J, that's his case for sure. She likes turning him into her own private plastic explosive. Sometimes she wishes he'd lose his temper, hurting her, giving in and taking her by force. Harleen would feel invincible then. But she knows it's not going to happen. So she sits in his lap, listens to his instructions on how to plan a mass slaughter and rubs against him trying to find his breaking point.

She tried to call Pamela to tell her about her subtle variant of Russian roulette. Pamela never answered.

It takes a week for Harleen Quinzel to really start to worry for Pamela Isley.

She calls her and gets no reply. She tells herself that she must be busy.

Her job begins to be negatively influenced by her absence. So does her relationship with Mr. J. He can't stand to see her thinking of something else. She's the first unable to explain how can she lose her concentration even in the presence of such a magnificent subject, and feels guilt. But surely she can't explain to him that she's worried for _that friend_ he threatened to make disappear. He would laugh, and the sight of him laughing off Pam would hurt her badly.

"You're not paying mind to me enough, Harley" Mr. J tells her this morning while keeping on drawing, on the notepad she gave him, the structure and wiring of a simple type of bomb.

He's a very patient teacher when he feels that she's interested in his explanations, but this morning she's proving a lousy pupil. Usually she loves listening to him, bathing in his world, learning from him stuff a good girl would never think of.

Ever since Everton shot him Mr. J has been especially sweet and assiduous in her regards, and promised to tell her how he became Gotham's most feared criminal.

Their meetings have become extremely pleasant. A barrage of instructions on how to blow bug buildings up, hold a gun properly, hot kisses and words of love that cause her to make strenuous efforts to keep within the limits she established for herself. But now he, like any common guy would, is calling her on her lack of attention and some sort of coldness. Yes, just like anyone. The horror, the horror. She can't become the cause of Puddin' turning into a boring husband in a jumpsuit.

But her Pam is nowhere to be seen. And she has to find out what happened.

She invents an excuse for dr. Arkham and leaves for the afternoon.

-

She and Pamela have shared their apartment keys since the start of their friendship. Harleen used them to open windows, water plants and dust whenever Pamela was visiting her family in Seattle. Perhaps she's there now. But she enters only to find there are no plants to water. They're gone. Clothes are still in the drawers, cosmetics are in the bathroom, sheets are on the bed. But not the plants.

Attached to the empty fridge is a message for her.

"_I lied to you, Harley. When I was little I didn't dream of being a florist. I dreamed of being a flower. Forgive me for not saying goodbye as I should have. Don't come looking for me, you're going to hear from me, I promise._

Love,

P.I."

Harleen reads it three times, and every time the meaning of the words becomes less clear.

"_Don't come looking for me_".

She ends up crying on the kitchen chair in that kitchen she knows as well as hers.

Pamela, gone? And where? Does she have so little trust in her? Why did she leave her? Who or what _forced_ her to run away from her?

"_P.I._"

Pamela Isley.

_Or Poison Ivy?_

An absurd thought, but not more than the circumstances.

_It's not right Pam. It's not right._

Harleen Quinzel falls asleep in her friend's bed. When she wakes up the next day it's midday already.

-

Opening her eyes and realizing where she is, Harleen Quinzel phones the asylum and calls in sick. Then decides that Pamela can't have vanished in thin air. It's Monday, and surely she could find something about her whereabouts at Woodrue's lab.

She's not embarrassed about opening her drawers and putting on her underwear: she knows Pam wouldn't mind. The problem is the size. There's more than one reason she always envied her gone pal's breathtaking body.

_Wasted on Woodrue._

Harleen is sure Woodrue somehow is part of it. Certainly he knows where her Red has gone.

_I hope for your own good that you didn't so much as scratch her._

When she reaches the botanic biology department she can't reach the labs. "Reserved area" an assistant informs her.

Harleen can do nothing but ask her. The other's reply paralyzes her. Doctor Isley suddenly requested a leave. Doctor Woodrue was careless and was hospitalized with what apparently is spore poisoning.

_On leave?_

She doesn't believe it. It's not what happened. So Woodrue is having a rough patch. She doesn't care really, but she has to know anything she can.

-

The day is proving more and more a fatiguing one. Now she needs her scrub and badge. For the former she returns to Pamela's place and helps herself from her drawer; the latter she always carries along.

The Memorial has been a messy place ever since Gotham General was destroyed. Same holds for the other hospitals in town. An unplanned number of patients and doctor has been moved. This plays into her hands: in the chaos no one stops to wonder who she is. She's not a visiting patient, she's a doctor and takes upon herself the right to go wherever she deems necessary or to target a specific patient as much as needed.

Nobody pays her attention or is puzzled when she asks in which room Jason Woodrue is. She lets herself be briefly carried away by her memories of college. Back then she liked hospitals, microcosms that would lead her to her future. Through the years the mystic was lost, in her branch hand-on contact with patient is too sparse. And the fundamental relationship of trust is merely founded on empirical bases.

Still she always found the functions of the human body fascinating. She remembers her first times around a corpse very well: the other students in her class ran for the toilet, fainted or at least paled like ghosts. She did not. She couldn't wait for the scalpel to be in her hand. The incision, such a magnificent sensation. The flesh is weak.

"It's the first time I see someone grinning like that while doing it" professor Jones had told her, so many years ago.

The 'anatomy' option followed her through three years, then she stumbled into Guy and discovered the fascinating universe of the human mind. Better if distorted.

_Eaten some rotten fish, Jason?_

Woodrue is intubated but conscious. Harleen smirks. The wheel turns. It's as if she could see his filthy hands pierce Pamela's skin mercilessly.

"Howdy, Jason" she says, approaching his bed. "You look awful, you know?"

They only ever met once before today. A dinner Pam organized, which was more than enough to let her realize that she wants to see him dead. Arrogant. Slimy. _And bald, yes_. Hateful.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I have to find Pamela and I'm sure you know where she is".

Suddenly he becomes agitated. Harleen watches him slightly disgusted. Is this panic? What's terrorizing him? His shiny head covers with beads of sweat, he opens his mouth but seems to find it difficult to speak.

"Come on professor. You can do it. If you tell me what you did to Pamela I promise to leave you alone".

Or? Years of accumulated anger. Now she can really even the score. The temptation to throw the Hippocratic oath to the wind is tremendously strong.

"Pamela… it was her… She poisoned me… she must be caught… she's dangerous…"

"Pam poisoned you? Ok. Got it. Where is she?"

She's losing patience. Why did Pamela write that message? Is she hiding? This bastard could accuse her of trying to kill him…

"She's… poison" Woodrue concludes. His breathing is becoming more and more ragged.

"So it was she who did this to you…"

The man closes his ayes and nods affirmatively.

_You're great, Red._

She feels like laughing. She's so proud of her. If only there was a way to tell her face to face…

"Tell me where she's gone!" she insists, only to realize that no fugitive would ever give her victim indications on her whereabouts.

"It's no use… she can't survive anyway. Poison… for others and herself…"

Dead. No, she can't believe him. What did he do to her? She won't get anything more out of him. She can do nothing but call the Isleys and hope that Pamela searched shelter by her parents, although it seems dramatically unlikely.

_The key…_

Fat Tuesday night returns to her mind. The last gift from Pamela to her, among the trees.

_The old botanical garden_.

She has to go there. Pam could be there, in need of her help.

-

The sun is setting earlier than she would like it to.

_The botanical garden…_ she keeps thinking. But on the way home she changes her mind: it's too distant, and she'd get there very late at night.

She starts driving towards the suburbs with no desire but for her headache to leave her.

She has nothing to show for her efforts, she just discovered that Pamela tried to kill her lover. Great. They're really a pair of bad girls, but she didn't anticipate Pamela would prove the one more bad.

_Why did she try to off him? What did she discover?_

It's not as if one needs deep motivations to get rid of Jason Woodrue: his simple existence is enough to spur to action. But of all things she discovered today the most important to her is the realization that Pamela does not trust her. Not enough.

She takes her mail, then gets into the elevator. The first anonymous letter scared her, but when they became dozens she stopped paying them attention.

_"You'll burn in Hell, bitch"._

"The blood of his victims is on your hands".

And the most poetic ones, where trash talk reaches a zenith.

_"In how many ways do you let that monster fuck you, filthy whore?"_

Such charmers, the irreprehensible Gotham citizens.

The second round comes with the answering machine. Same tone. With as a bonus a few crying mothers and their _"It's like you killed my son a second time"_.

What did she do that was so wrong? She didn't join the general indignation. She took a resolve, the most obvious, the most right one. She judged listening to herself alone. Hard to make those bloodthirsty beasts see that. They're out for her and Mr. J.

Great. She should have expected that, after all. She chose to side with the monsters, the outcasts, the _villains_.

_This makes me one of them. Even though I didn't cross the line yet._

Did she really ask him to teach her how to use knives? The idea makes her smile. Her meetings with him turn into hazy memories of a delirium, then they desert her and she tries to hold onto them with her mind.

_Yes, I did. It's really he that's healing me, right? Little, sick, brilliant, perfect Harleen, the pride of mom and pops._

A sudden thought closes her stomach. Mr. J, always Mr. J. For how long there's been nothing else in her mind? Maybe Pamela had talked. Maybe Pamela asked for her help and she wouldn't listen, too absorbed with herself and him.

_Maybe, maybe not. No use crying over spilled milk, I have to help her _now.

Amidst the junk that comes with her mail is the usual medical review. She skims it while waiting for the painkiller she took to set in. Usually the thing goes straight into the trash bin: she can't stand the self-complacency her peers put to paper. She only has copy of the two issues carrying the articles she wrote right after her internship, a sacrifice to be made on the altar of credibility. Her eyes settle on the picture of a grinning Odin Markus. She examines the article, then gabs the first thing at hand, a dancer made of Bohemian glass, gift from aunt Esther, and throws it against the wall. She thought the day couldn't go worse. Wrong assumption.

-

The bitter taste in her mouth tells her that her anger is reaching dangerous levels. She could not sleep and her headache got worse. She's been snarling at everyone who talked to her all morning and now realizes she's started grinding her teeth, a bad habit she thought she'd shed as an adult and that used to make her mother mad.

"You're ruining the enamel, Leeny".

She did not care of the reason she was so angry. Nope, she worried about her teeth enamel. Such a simple, crystal clear spirit her mother. For all of her life she only wished not to resemble her. As a psychiatrist she knows it's like this for most women.

_This is the reason I will never have a daughter. I don't want a rancorous kid blaming everything on me._

Ten AM. Mr. J is late. She asks herself what Morales might be doing. She needs to distract herself. She doesn't want to think. If she was in a better mood she might even ask his advice, but truth to be told she doesn't really feel like seeing him. She's having bad thought, and they're about him. They're shapeless and incoherent, but they're there. And they all ring the same way.

_It's his fault._

When finally Morales gets around to bringing him to her he smirks at her in his usual way. She returns him a venomous glance. Her gastric fluids start tossing around. She's very much aware that all her phrases sound piqued, but can't help it. She's seething.

Doctor and patient. If it does not please him he can go back to his cell now. She had enough, and doesn't wish to throw herself into his murderous arms. She does not even want to talk with him.

"The Harlequin is cross this morning" he says, arching an eyebrow.

"My mood is not your business" she answers curtly.

She hates the feeling of his eyes on her. She hates his silence. She hates his inquiring expression.

"Free my wrists, Harley". And surely, he used an imperative tone.

"Why should I? Do it yourself, I know you could".

In what a revolting abyss did he throw… _I threw_… her life?

"It's all your fault. All your fault. Everything was going wonderfully. Damn me, damn me a thousand times".

She mustn't talk to him. Not say a thing. It's the wrong day for one of his lessons on becoming a perfect criminal. She doesn't even know how she let herself be talked into it. It had been fun, but the world turns, doesn't wait for her and is ready to take advantage of her distraction.

"What a lousy show. What tragedy fell on your shallow head to reduce you to this? You couldn't find the pair of shoes you were dreaming of?" He leans against the desk waiting for an answer with her mocking grin that had never looked so out of place.

_You think I'm stupid? Finally, you said as much. Great. I think you're a cynical son of a bitch who's ruining my life. We're ideally matched._

"The shoes I was dreaming of?" she snarls. "Now listen, and listen well, you psycho failure of a clown: my best friend disappeared after trying to kill her man, I'm getting threatening mail and calls just because I'm your doctor, and now I found out that my rector, that bastard, stole my research, my project, my notes and is presenting them as his work and the rich and powerful of Gotham are about to crown him publicly giving him a prize and research funds. All thanks to my work, and I have no proof. And guess what? It's all your fault. You turned my brains into jell-o. Everything has started getting wrong since I met you. You took away my clear mind, my understanding, my ability to interact with others. You took away my life, dammit!"

She let it all out, in a broken voice and with watery eyes. Hearing herself say those words she's once again struck by their lack of sense, yet she still believes them true.

_Your. Fault._

It takes only a few seconds for Harleen Quinzel to remember whom she's dealing with. She has no time to attempt to defend herself: he lunges for her, grabs her by her scrub and lifts her in the air.

Her knees hit the edge of her desk, but what appeared like searing pain is gone, swallowed by the new one that engulfs her when she's pressed against the wall forcefully. She can only think that the strength to cry out. He's holding her there, unable to move, trapping her with his body. There's no escape for her. He's too strong and heavyset and she's too tiny even to attempt to slip free. With her right cheek against the cold surface she finds it difficult even to breathe. Where are his hands? She wonders if they're tied still, although the detail changes nothing really. They're raised high, as it's the only way he has to keep her trapped like that.

"My underlings don't have the luxury of retiring on their own terms".

Panic. He's making it flow into her with every fiber of his being. His breathing is quick and irregular. It's the first time she sees him completely out of control.

_Completely?_

She prays it's not really the case: that would rule out any chance of getting out of there safe.

"What's got into you, doctor Quinzel? Can't stand the pressure? Unable to be who I want, who you want to be in full? You're a disappointment".

His voice becomes an evil whisper in her ear. Part of her remembers that the most important and insightful things, those that led her to fall into his net for good, were invariably told that way.

"_Laugh, and make me laugh, Harlequin_".

"I thought you were the right woman for me. A miscalculation. The right woman for me wouldn't need to cry for herself. My Harley Quinn makes others dance to the tune of her most peculiar music. My Harley Quinn gives and takes, and makes the roundabout spin. She doesn't recriminate. Neither does she vent her frustrations in a hysterical speech that both depresses and mortifies me. My Harley Quinn knows how to get rid of those who'd change her lines and ruin her show".

_It's true. I should really find a way to make Markus, Woodrue and all my rotten haters pay. Instead…_

"P… please. You're hurting me".

He laughs madly, not apparently about to set her free… Harleen closes her eyes. The adrenalin her body is producing dizzies her. She's starting to feel euphoric, an unexpected side effect of fear. He's gorgeous again, and she doesn't know why. She likes feeling him against her, being at his mercy, feeling pain and succumbing helplessly. Her legs are shaking. She's unsure if she could stand on her own.

"Hurting you? With this? You don't know what real pain is doctor Quinzel. You who are not Harley Quinn. You were just pretending. Pitiful insignificant doctor who doesn't have the guts to keep up with me. You're a bluff. No, scratch that, you're not that. I like bluffers. You're a spoiled precooked dinner, covered in spices to cover the stench. You're nothing, doctor Quinzel, and you're no use to me. I was waiting for you, but it was in vain. I'll have to go on without your company now, you little worthless trash. I'm to leave alone. What a pity… What's the purpose of a clown that isn't funny? Tell me, how should I kill you? Here and now, or you'd rather me visit you in your apartment while you sleep?"

It's hot. Too hot. Maybe she's got a fever. Every word hits her fully, but doesn't hurt. Not in the way she'd expected. She wishes she could tell him that he's wrong but know it would only make him even angrier.

_What have I done? Have I lost him? He doesn't love me anymore?_

"You said you would take my heart. Take it, it's yours. You can use my paper cutter. I don't care if it won't be quick, but I want you to look me in the eyes while you do it. I want your face to be the last thing I see".

He's about to do it. He'll dig between her ribs with that subtle, not very cutting blade and it will be excruciating. She won't scream: She wouldn't want him to be stopped.

He grows silent. His breathing becomes regular again as he stops exerting such tremendous force on her.

"You're crazy…" he says before setting her free.

_Undeniable… _reflects Harleen supporting herself on the desk to catch her breath.

She doesn't dare to turn in his direction. She manages to stumble to the door and open it. Morales, as always, is there waiting.

"I'm not feeling very well Paulo. Take him away. We're done for the day. I think I'll go home now".

He lets himself be carried away docilely and doesn't give her even a glance.

"Influenza, doc?" Morales asks her. "Take care of yourself. It's clear that you're not at your best".

_No. Estrogens_, she thinks letting herself fall on the couch. _Where have you gone Mr. J? Nothing's changed. Tell me nothing's changed._

__

Only broken windows, rust and cobwebs welcome her at the old botanical garden. The main building is surrounded by ironweeds, neglect, used condoms and syringes.

Harleen Quinzel hesitates before stepping closer. Her fear of finding junkies or vagrants inside isn't far-fetched. She squeezes in her hand the key Pamela gave her, inhales deeply and steels herself. The main door lock is new and opens without problems. The interior surprises her: it has been cleaned recently. Beyond the hall a laboratory has been furnished with a bunk bed and a gas stove. Further she finds burners, pots and canned food.

_A refuge… a hideout…_

For how long has Pamela been setting it up? She didn't notice a thing. And why isn't she there?

Harleen looks around. It's no castle, but it's well thought out. Perhaps she should leave a notice, asking her friend to contact her.

_Where are you now, Red?_

Yesterday's excitement is by the rankest desolation. For the first time in her life she really feels she's been abandoned. What is she supposed to do with the place, except for practicing violation of private property? Whom does this shack belong to, the city of Gotham? Surely it's not Pamela Isley's, who simply took possession of it and offered it to her for reasons she can't fathom.

_There are no torches. Or an independent power plant. And weapons. Nobody could stay here without means to defend._

She's thinking like someone on the lam, and it doesn't feel unnatural. She couldn't go back even if she would. It's just not written in the stars. These past weeks nothing stayed as she knew it. And if Pamela bestowed her such an odd gift she must have had a very strong reason. She had promised they would meet again, and Harleen wants to believe her.

She must leave before dark. The 'hideout' creeps her.

The trip back home seems extremely short to her. She was thinking too much, she just swallowed the road. How many things will stop being recognizable, then? Her wonderful apartment. Her clothes. The stuffed animals from her childhood, which she keeps and treasures. Will they also dissolve into nothing? Mr. J told her terrible, but true things.

"_You're nothing, doctor Quinzel_".

_I'm this place, this furniture, a photo book, a mother, a father, a brother, a diploma hanging at the wall, a bottle of bleach to make my hair lighter, a movie with Shakespeare falling in love for a ravishing dame with long flaxen hair. Nothing._

She doesn't recognize the place, doesn't recognize herself. Now that she's truly alone she's able to see herself and it's like looking at a ghost.

Hidden among the usual hate mail is a different letter. It has no postmark and the sender is merely identified as _Ivy_. She leaves it on the table and goes to prepare her dinner, then waits some more and watches the images moving on her TV screen without seeing them. Only then she overcomes the fury she's feeling because she left without a word and opens the envelope.

"_Forgive me, darling._

I thought I had killed Jason, but now know that he made it. It seems that I wasn't the only one he experimented on. There are things I discovered about him and the nature of his research, the truth about what he did to me. I don't think he suspects that I told you about it. As long as you know nothing, you're safe.

I can't stay here, Harley. Something's changed in me. Now I see everything in a completely different light. I'm sorry that I did not say goodbye. I would have taken you with me, but you wouldn't have come. I only ask you one thing: I know you will run away with him, it's only a matter of time. Don't tell him about the old botanical garden. That place is yours and yours only. You might need to get away from him and there not even the Joker could find you.

We'll see soon Harley, I promise. Soon. With all my love.

Pamela"

She reads it only once. She lays her head on the pillow and gazes at the piece of paper she's holding, as if finding its form, its corners and the subtle ink lines an extraordinary sight. Then she closes her eyes, and wakes up only the following evening.

The new patrols have cold eyes and hard expressions. They always move in pairs and Harleen feels that their attitude is more fitting to a maximum security prison than a hospital, even if it's an asylum for the criminally insane.

Also the rest of her colleagues seems to be not at ease with their presence. Joan told her that they cause her goosebumps. Harleen almost wishes that the rumors were true and that Arkham is about to make her head of staff. So that bunch of androids with guns would be fired in a heartbeat. They were hired with the only purpose of giving the Joker the rough treatment, so as to cure him of any intention to try the stunt that mutilated Everton again.

Harleen hates even looking at them. She is always relieved when Morales' turn comes. She's not so lucky tonight: it's barely ten PM and the two watchdogs are playing cards outside the security door. Harleen offers them a cute yet caustic smile.

"Hi guys. I need to have a little talk with the patient. Could you please let me in? Now. Thanks".

"The lights are off already" one of them says, landing a full boat. They really are undistinguishable.

Obvious. The corridors are swallowed by darkness at nine straight. But this is not an excuse: they know very well that she dictates times and means in the Joker's existence. Such a basic concept just won't enter their skulls.

"I know. Turn them on. Open the damn door and let me speak to my patient. Immediately".

The duo seems more irritated for the interruption in their game than the violation of the rules. To hell with them, they have until sunrise to take each other's money.

Mr. J does not seem to be disturbed by the neon lights coming to life or by the door closing heavily behind her. He turns toward the wall and for an instant she really believes he's sleeping, but she knows his sleep is not at all so quiet.

He does not wish to talk with her. Of course. Didn't he tell her that he does not want anything to do with her anymore?

"Excuse me if I disturb you at this hour. I have a few things to tell you, see…" hard to communicate without looking at him. "I'm sorry for yesterday. I won't disappoint you again, I promise. Just don't be mad at me, please".

She's not feeling sad. Not by a long shot. She woke up a few hours possessed with a mental clarity and serenity like she never felt before. She learned her lesson. No more miscalculations the size of yesterday's.

"It's not been a good week. Except for you, that is. Yes, you've been the detail that carried me through it in spite of everything. And I shouldn't have released my tension on you. It was wrong of me, and I apologize. Now everything is fine. So if you just will forget what happened and forgive me, I swear I won't make you lose your temper again. I want to help you, make your life more easy and pleasant, if you'll allow me. Can I still be at your side?"

There's not even the hint of an answer, but she's not worried. She said the right words. It's their own game of playing the parts: now it's time for her to show up in contrition. She knows his ego too well by now, and can stay there waiting all the time required. She sighs and sits on the floor resting her shoulders against the Plexiglas. If he doesn't feel like talking then she'll have to keep him awake. She wants to touch him, but will refrain from doing so until he's forgiven her. Did she really risk losing everything? She grins, berating herself. It was like an engine sputtering into silence within sight of the finish line. And he proved truly extraordinary when he gave her the right nudge that set her back in her course: no Markus, no Pamela, no Random Guy will monopolize her thoughts again, ruining her mood and making her negative putting a spanner in her relationship with Mr. J. There's nobody like Mr. J. Nobody is more important.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me. Even simply your presence in my life. If you'll give me the chance I'll do anything I can to become the woman you want, to make you proud of me. I won't let you down, Mr. J. Keep me around and I'll make sure to become indispensible for you, to deserve your love. You know everything about me now, but I also learned a thing or two about you. You need someone who understands and loves you but don't believe such a person exists. Let me be that one. You're the most extraordinary man I ever knew. I'll put all myself into keeping to your standards. I'll do anything you want, the way you want it done. Let me be close to you".

The camera's red LED watches her, nosily. She wonders what the guys in the surveillance room are seeing now. A sleeping lunatic and a doctor on the floor, apparently intent on ignoring each other. She's so tempted to give them something more exciting to comment on…

"It's true that you took over my life completely, that I don't exist without you. But why should I look back to the perfect life I had? There has to be a reason why I can't stop thinking of you. And the reason is, ever since I met you I want nothing in the world but being in your presence. I want to be part of your world. I want to be part of your life. What do I have to do for you to love me again? Let me be important to you once more. Our story has just begun, Mr. J. Don't leave me completely empty for a stupid mistake. Don't leave me behind. I would have to many things to regret, so many important or small moments we haven't had together yet. I could never forget that once you've been part of me. I want to go on loving you for the rest of my days, in every conceivable way…"

"If you want to be my sidekick learn to shut up. This insufferable rambling is more disturbing than a drill applied to a hot-dog seller. And I'm speaking from experience".

_Well, of course._

Harley grins, cocking her heat to the side to peek at him out of the corner of one eye. He's standing right behind her. She stands up, wishing to look into his face instead of staring at his knees.

"Will you forgive me, Mr. J?"

She places her hands on the Plexiglas. She wants to touch him. Not yet. She doesn't deserve it. He does as her. Their fingers unite without touching.

_I'll give you my hands. Do what you want with them, the sweetest, the most cruel things._

"You've been away for thirty-seven hours, twenty-one minutes and fifteen seconds, twenty, twenty-six… It's not nice to do such things to your favorite patient. You made me feel left to fend for myself. I need my shrink's care. I could have a relapse without you tending to me, know that?"

As usual balancing between levity and staggering directness. Harleen stopped trying to tell truth from lies: such categories don't apply to him. He believes everything, and believes nothing that comes out of his own mouth, and doesn't even see a problem in that. Someday Harleen will understand the process he uses to select the thought that surely flutter inside his mind and place them in an order only he recognizes. And will know how can he measure time so precisely without needing a watch.

"Teach me Mr. J. Teach me how not to be smashed. Tell me how to. How to hit back at those who hurt me".

He's studying her. Is he pondering whether to give her a second chance or not? It has to be so. All considered his placet is simply a formality now. She waits, looking at his hands, taking in how well-groomed and thin they are. The detail both surprises and send her in ecstasy every time. His hands, his arms: it takes nothing else to judge him irredeemably striking. Mr. J is composed of details she can't help but loving. Those who limit themselves to the surface without digging deeper are so silly and shallow.

"Do you still want a portrait of me? You want me to give you one? You could keep it with my scarf. Do you want it, Mr. J?"

She's afraid that he could say no, that he might make fun of her once again. But it doesn't happen.

"Let me see" he replies, so ominously that she feels shivers.

Harleen nods, then passes him through the security door the picture her cell phone took on Fat Tuesday. It's the only one among all where she's alone. She waits, with a bit of anxiety at the prospect of his judgment about to come. Yet she discovers something unexpected as he's watching the smirking red and black Harlequin, her white face, her eyes surrounded by black. He looks almost incredulous and gazes incessantly at the diminutive clown she became for a night.

_Dear, dear Mr. J… That expression is so transparent. The male alpha clown recognizes immediately the only magnificent specimen of female of his species ready to welcome him in the mating season. Whenever you want to, Mr. J. We can start the courting dance._

"Harley… Harley Quinn… Harley Quinn… my tender Harley Quinn… my Harley Quinn… my…"

His throaty voice has an uncommon edge, as if he'd stopped controlling it. Listening to him gives her a subtle sense of smugness.

_This is what you wanted. It's me. We were made to be together, love, my love, my many-splendored love…_

He turns to look at her, although it seems that taking his eyes off the photo takes a lot of effort from him. He smiles at her, malignant and ecstatic, and she knows that every misunderstanding has been solved.

"Tomorrow. Bring me a map of Gotham, my dear. I'll show you why no one can afford to sleep quietly in his bed".

-

_You put my heart back in my hand_

And wipe it clean

From the mess you made of me

And I require

You make me free from this desire

And when you leave, I'd better be the innocent

I used to be.

(Emilie Autumn, _I want my innocence back_)


	13. Civic mindedness

_**AMOUR FOU - XIII**_

Interlude n°3

"Civic-mindedness" 

_Where do we go, nobody knows  
I've gotta say I'm on my way down  
God give me style and give me grace  
God put a smile upon my face_

Where do we go to draw the line  
I've gotta say, I wasted all your time, oh honey honey  
Where do I go to fall from grace  
God put a smile upon your face

(Coldplay, _God put a smile upon your face_)

In everyone's lives there are secrets, small or big skeletons in the closet that, once let out with their sneer and empty orbits ruin the spotless façade of those who kept them hidden until then irreparably. He has yet to forget the months he spent with the puppet David Lepeskow to silence the authorities about the Crane scandal. It took a lot of skillful maneuvering to repair the institute's image, and yet he's still reading articles on the Gotham Times calling for closure. _Incompetent_ and _dangerous_ are the most common definitions used for the staff.

Jeremiah Arkham, in his almost sixty years, has learned a thing or two on the population haunting the place named after his ancestor: madmen don't hide secrets, they simply protect their world. The sane, instead, lie purposefully. All of them. He's the first on the list, only he's better than the others and supported by tactful accomplices.

Sometimes Joan tells him that they should stop pretending, that ten years of clandestine relationship are too many even for someone as patient as her and that it would be time to set his wife aside and start living their love openly.

Whenever she talks like that Jeremiah Arkham feels especially cowardly. He doesn't like the thought of mixing his two private spaces together. Not after all the care he took to keep his little happy kingdom intact.

He doesn't like to call what he feels for Joan high and sonorous names. There's affection, there's a strong attraction. There's the pleasure of her company. Sometimes he suspects these elements are but an excuse to justify his involvement with a woman twenty years his junior, with cocoa skin, a soft and supple body and a vivacious sensuality. But ultimately it doesn't matter much to him, such mechanisms remain an unknown quantity even for those in his business. He keeps on repeating it to himself as he watches the tapes from the isolation cells.

Until now he simply trusted his instincts and had to read between the lines of Harleen Quinzel's aseptic resumes, trying to ascertain the truth of his suspects. Now, in the last tape, labeled JHQ13, Jeremiah Arkham's patience is finally rewarded. The way the two subjects search the other's gaze, their gestures, that tie both palpable and obscenely graceful, like a poisonous snake crawling, demonstrate it.

Jeremiah Arkham still feels guilt, but it's paling as days go by, as his desire to observe, understand and explore that extraordinary relationship case grows.

_Don't worry, young Quinzel. Nothing bad shall befall any of us_.

He won't let the girl go too far. He'll understand when the time to stop her, to take her away from her hideous lover has come. For now he can give her free rein. Because he knows that, the day she became an unwitting subject of study just as her patient, she was absolutely right: the Joker would never hurt her.

It's once again, as usual, the eternal process that brings two people to want each other, which defies any logic but the one of pheromones, and carries the overvalued name of love.

_He's crazy_.

Harleen Quinzel has said to herself once more, watching him rage over the map of Gotham.

A red mark, another one, one over the other, frantically, his gaze feverish, his mouth open in a ferocious sneer.

_He's a genius_, she thinks instead when he hands her the finished masterpiece, panting heavily, his brow covered with sweat.

Detonator, bomb, detonator, bomb, detonator…

Scores of straight lines crossing, mutilating the town in all directions. A gigantic powder keg.

"Are you serious?" she asks, trying to prevent her fingers from shaking.

"Never" Mr. J replies, mindless joy dancing on his features. "Have fun Harley. It's all yours. A gift. A _boom _here, another _boom_ there. When you want to. A _boom_ under the chair of someone you choose".

Harleen lets herself drop on the sofa. It's strange to see him sitting in her usual place at the desk while she's where patients traditionally are. But that's not the focal point. The crisscross of lines hypnotizes her. To blow city hall up one has only to pick the detonator hidden between 13 and Kennedy up. To say a definitive goodbye to the fashion district, one has only to take a stroll down Nightingale Street. There's a fuse waiting to be lit at every corner of Gotham, and no one noticed. For every charge the police finds there are ten others that won't be discovered.

_Is this the way the boys in blue keep us all safe?_

It seems obvious now. How can nobody have realized it? He wouldn't have had the physical time to mine Gotham General after seeing Coleman Reese's weasel face on TV, spouting to know the Batman's identity. Like the charges must have been already close to the ferries for his funny little diversion at the port to be set up on such short notice.

_You really are portentous, Mr. J…_

"How… how long did it take you to prepare this… thing? And why are you telling me?"

How many times did she ask this question? Every time he revealed a secret. But this one _really_ is too big.

"And why not?" he replies. "It's your call now. You can go to the police and tell Gordon and his goons the whole story. I have nothing to lose. Sure it will take years to set the show back up, but I've got time aplenty. Or you could thank me for this gift I gave you and really start having your fun. The moment something explodes is electrifying, trust me. As if you were destroying and creating the universe at the same time".

_Such a poet…_ No man ever did anything like that for her. _Well, no man ever did anything like that, period._

She's through with swallowing bitter pills from the likes of Markus. If they knew… They're at her mercy now. And she's not concerned to know that every night she goes to bed with twelve barrels of nitrogen peroxide less than two hundred yards from where she lives: such are the little risks of being the right hand of a criminal genius.

"Don't get angry, but I doubt that I would dare it for real… I mean… there would be victims… and I don't want to kill anyone. Save for Odin Markus. And Jason Woodrue. And Cindy Walker. Did I tell you about Cindy Walker? A skank. In high school she talked Dennis Trapton into going to the prom with her after he'd already asked me and…"

"Harley".

"Sorry".

By now she knows when it's time to be quiet: a second before he loses his temper, or pretends to. She knows that Mr. J is never truly angry with her, and it goes in both directions. Why has Cindy Walker resurfaced in her mind? That was a lifetime ago. She's thinking about high school too much lately, and has since that must strange dream about the boy with overlong hair and the killer smile.

_I know it was you. You can deny as much as you want, I just know._

Wrong. Mr. J never truly denied. Mr. J simply ignored her insinuations about it.

_And even if it was him, why should he remember?_

The thought saddens her. Forgetting about her…

"It's a gift. Do what you want with it. As long as I'm here I surely can't have any fun. And if you're too finicky for such little games that's entirely your problem".

_Yes, he's right._

Now she has within reach the power to be just like him. Some latent invincibility. It's all up to her. Is this what feeling free is like? She stands up and hugs him tightly. She feels him stiffen instinctively, but does not relinquish her hold. The doctor can't close a blind eye on such things. And the doctor determined that the patient needs a boatload of human warmth.

Harleen Quinzel. She's the one they need. Jacob Columbine stresses it to Arthur Walsh while nodding enthusiastically.

That early morning call was welcome to him, but at the same time it caused him some stress. Being a literary agent surely doesn't make him swim in cash. And working for Columbine press and its greedy owner is even less profitable.

It's always a matter of runs and sales, never of pure talent. Arthur Walsh often looks back on the idealism he had to leave behind. And he had already predicted that his client the shrink would smash her delightful face into this reality sooner than later.

Now Quinzel is determined to draw out her big guns. No more self-help books for frustrated housewives. At long last, a nice, big fat tome on serial killers and the likes for the angry-looking teens to devour. Arthur has been waiting for Columbine's call for months, obviously to end with a shouted "No deal! True crime is a spent fad!"

Instead the boss invited him to his house for breakfast, offered him coffee and pancakes and started ventilating himself with a copy of his client's I'm okay. You're okay. H's the kind of weird, paperback edition. Well, in truth, there was never a hardcover one. But Columbine knows the magic word.

"Dust jacket, Walsh. A luxury, library edition. One of those with the title in big letters on the cover. That make it to the display window. Tell miss Quinzel to drop anything she's writing and bring me a well-sized book on the Joker, replete with morbid details. I want the first chapter within a week. I'll offer her a contract that will make her eyes shine like stars if she brings me the Joker's exclusive story. Do you realize that the entire Gotham has this chick's name on her lips and we're still here wasting time?"

If the thought of a starry-eyed Harleen Quinzel cheers him up immediately, the sign of a fictitious cash register filling his ears makes him even happier. His protégée is no literary talent; he finds her phrasing shallow and clumsy. But that's why her books sell: her readers, especially female ones, can keep their brains switched off while reaching the last page absolutely sure to have read something extremely deep. So she's not one of the very few writers that make Arthur Walsh still somewhat proud of his profession, enough to save him from depression. But Arthur Walsh is married, and a baby is on the way. And as of late 'the Joker' is synonymous with a carload of money in Gotham.

"Let's call her now!" he replies to Columbine, grinning from ear to ear.

"The DA's office is on your case. It seems that they want to sue you for negligence on the decisive day. But don't worry, miss Ducard has already shown her willingness to ensure you're assisted and, from our part, we can grant you that they won't find anything to grasp on. The sentence is already written, believe me. Rehabilitation through clinical care. We all but made it".

Harleen puts some more foundation on her left cheekbone.

Worrying? Wayland's call to inform her about the god-awful trial left no trace in her. The thought that she's not yet through with tribunals and lawyers only gives her a deep sensation of boredom.

_I could turn the DA's office into a pile of smoking brands if I wanted to. Don't give me this poppycock._

"Ow".

She should be mindful about her fingertips. Mr. J was not overly polite when he pushed her away. She hates him when he hits her in the face. As if he didn't knew that to cover the signs up she'll have to make herself up like a… clown? Yeah, something like that.

_No fuss. It was just a tiny bruise. It was worth it. I so love when he pretends that he doesn't want to be touched…_

"Do you get a kick out of treating me like a punching ball?" she asked, pretending to be angrier than she truly was.

"I have to keep myself fit, you know. Staying locked here doing nothing I risk atrophy. You can come and kiss me, now".

She said no to him, and she's damn proud of it. She cherishes his expression as he realizes he's not going to have it his way. A confused child. So adorable.

_Atrophy. I have a few ideas of what could keep you active._

Harleen moves away from the mirror. No one is going to notice.

_I dare, I don't, I do…_

Trying something beyond their pre-pubescent innuendo. Why shouldn't she? She's still dealing with a young adult male perfectly fit, atrophy or not. And that perennial one step forward, two backwards is tiring her.

_No, I can't. If they see us, it's all over, for real this time. And an office surely is not the most secluded place in the world. It's so like a porn movie. Especially as _everyone _is apparently bent on minding our business._

There's no solution, at least for now. Their true honeymoon will have to wait for when he truly is free.

_But I barely even started treating him. I _don't want _to treat him. I want him the way he is. And there's been no sentence yet. So I could not dismiss him even if I wanted to and even after the court's decision, in front of a commission, the fable of his perfect rehabilitation wouldn't stand._

Life is so complicated sometimes. What's a girl in love to do to spend a night with the man of her dreams? She wonders why her head is continually spinning. Maybe something's wrong at neural level. She's actually good enough to realize that her current mental state is more than a few cards short of a full deck. Stress really does have bad consequences.

_Yes, I know, I really need a vacation. But I can't leave him here to fend for himself. Not when there's an entire city up in arms against him. He would feel marooned without me around. He told me so. He needs my presence._

The thought moves her. She knew she'd be able to make him open a little door to his most inner, fragile self. She always knew. But what's happening between them is going beyond every expectation she had. "Soon you'll be telling me that you want to take him home…" Arkham had told her, thinking himself amusing. Old idiot. Sooner or later his moment will come, too.

When her phone rings she answers with the voice of a dreamy girl, but the pink cloud she's sailing on vanishes once she recognizes her agent's voice. The final chapter. She's two weeks late with it. And since Mr. J is there she hasn't written a line, despite her initial plans to come to a close dealing with him. She attempts some excuses before Arthur starts talking about penalties and the likes. But he surprises her, stopping her in her tracks.

"Drop it, Harleen. Throw it in the bin. I'm at Columbine's place. He wants you to write a book about the Joker. _Wholly_ about the Joker. We could meet tonight for the contract".

A book about Mr. J? Yes, she had thought about it. Then, like so many other things, even that idea disappeared from her mind. On the other hand it would be a crime not to register on paper the extraordinary experience she's living through. That _they_ are living through. She'll have to talk with him about it. He's going to love it.

_Or not?_

Half of the money will be his, as she sees fair.

"What a good idea, Arthur. I'll start working on it immediately".

She still has thirty minutes. She had thought to afford herself a Kaboom Coffee cup on her way to the Narrows. But right now she's itching to start writing. She ends Walsh's call fixing a meeting for nine PM, then gets on her PC and opens a new document. She has it all. Title, structure, chapters. Everything is clear in her mind.

Centered, size 16, Gothic Bold.

**Psycho Killers and The Women That Love Them Too Much**

_By_

_Harleen Quinzel, Ph.D._

Perfect. She knows where to start: the day he was brought to Arkham and they met. Obviously. It will be a splendid, heartfelt work.

The telephone interrupts her again. She saves and replies.

"Doctor Quinzel? My name is Cecily Wallace. I work for Gotham Tonight".

There's one thing everyone agrees on in that meeting room: the late Mike Engel was a jerk. A tyrant with make up artists and tailors, haughty with his staff, a bootlicker with the higher-ups. And yet he was "Mike Engel of Gotham Tonight". Lydia Filangeri is tired of being 'the journo who got away'. It's not her fault that Mike decided to go to Gotham General the day it was blown up. Neither it's her fault that Mike was killed by the Joker. But the time has come for her to squeeze her memory to the last drop, like a lemon into a glass.

A prime time special on the Joker trial. With a nice portrait of Mike on the scenery and some phrases aimed to the gallery like, "_Will the killer pay?_"

By now it's a given that, whatever might happen, judge McLean will declare the defendant mentally ill. Thus, it's the right time or a discussion that will leave a few casualties on the field. Prosecutors, defense, someone from the police, a few relatives of the victims, a couple of shrinks in the role of experts, some survivors, two press journalists. And his psychiatrist. The editor has been adamant about it. He liked the little doll ever since she responded to the press outside the tribunal, when observations were made about her relationship with her… patient.

"She looks good on camera, young and pretty" Joseph Leary insists. "And she's the focal point of a number of… spicy rumors. Ratings will soar".

Lydia elbows Shirley Williams, who's sitting by her side. Sometimes it's hard to be woman, and the minority. If it was for her, miss Quinzel would be massacred with tendentious, nasty questions.

_But she looks good on camera, and… what else? She's young and pretty, so she must be treated with silken gloves._

"Why don't you offer her a weekly segment to solve whatever sentimental problem the girls of Gotham have?" she chimes in.

That would be such a fitting place for that frivolous-looking bimbette, much more than Arkham Asylum, where she's taking care of this year's big case.

"Have you read her books?" Shirley backs her up. "One wonders where she got her Ph.D.: the internet perhaps?"

Lydia thanks her silently for the support, but the glares from her male colleagues, full of condescension and their sugary grins all scram the same thing: "The ladies are envious, as predicted".

She sighs, resignedly. She has nothing to envy that girl for: her lean B-cup, the childish face or the necessity of walking on stilts not to be trampled on.

"So, it's agreed" Leary concludes. "The list of studio guests is done. I want them _all_. So don't mince words, folks, I want this show to go down the annals".

_Oh, count on it_, Lydia pledges to herself. _I'm going to quarter her. It's a promise._

"Are those pigtails?" Joan Leland asks, coming to her side in the corridor.

Harleen is in such a high mood that she even returns a sincere smile. "No, my ears simply mutated overnight".

Pigtails. They're practical and don't make her feel a fossil. What's wrong with that? She's sure that Mr. J will love them too.

"You look happy this morning. Did something good happen?"

Harleen doubts the sincerity of her interest. Joan notices her suspicious glare immediately.

"Hey, just a few days ago you looked like a whipped dog. Your mood swings kind of jump to the eye". Harleen stretches out her arms. "It's probably down to the fact that I have too little sex. My patient does not cooperate and my nervous system is suffering the backlash".

It's true, just two days ago her morale was on the floor, but now everything is great again. He's right: no sense moping and screaming at the world. One has to trounce, crush, pulverize his problems, then forget about them.

"I see you decided to take it personally. Ok, maybe I went too far. I apologize. Will that do?"

Joan has become extremely serious and it takes a few moments for Harleen to pinpoint what she's babbling about. Then she puts the pieces together. Her insinuations on herself and Mr. J… It might not be the right time to tell her that moments ago she was absolutely serious. That her patient is _really_ driving her out of her mind with her urge to jump in his arms.

"Forgiven" she says, smirking.

Really, why don't they all just disappear? Better to get along with the new staff manager, right? This morning she's ready to hug her worst enemy.

_I, at Gotham Tonight…_

She must buy herself a new dress, something very chic. They will take care of her makeup. She hopes she won't be overawed. Can it be really worse than a really important sport meeting? There are no opponents and she only has to talk. She needs some good advice and he's the only one who can give it to her.

She waits in her office, barely containing her excitement. Ten minutes. Can't they bring him to her early for once?

When finally her precious one comes in she has to fight back the instinct to throw her arms around his neck until they're alone. Then, without so much as greeting him, she tells him about the book and, more importantly, about her future guest spot at Gotham Tonight. And she's really not at all surprised to see him concede nothing more than a frown.

"So you're making money off me, Harley? A greedy servant, and a pillar of the system".

"Oh please" she grins in reply. "I even stopped at the cake shop to grab some pastries so we can celebrate".

She likes taking care of what he eats. The gruel they serve to patients is very far from a French restaurant. And it saddens her that for security reasons he can't even use plastic cutlery. So every occasion she gets she cooks him something herself and spoon-feeds him herself. She's not so crazy yet to hand him a fork.

"And what will you tell that rabble, Harley? What will you say about me?"

There's a hint of suspicion in his voice. Maybe he's really worried. _Like I could even remotely think of doing anything that could hurt you._

"What a question. That you're out of mind and that judge McLean's decision to consider you mentally ill is absolutely sound. I'll keep how wonderful you are to me for myself, if you don't mind".

"Won… der… ful…" he whispers, as if weighing every syllable, dropping on the couch and lifting his wrists in her direction. Harleen doesn't need a word from him: she saunters there and frees his hands. It's a regular ritual by now. Sometimes she's taken by the doubt of having become his devout slave. And she likes it. She doesn't know why, but she likes it.

"Wonderful…" he repeats, lost in his thoughts, inaccessible to her.

What's going on in his head now? A shiver runs down her spine, alarming her.

"You can come and kiss me now, I told you. You said no. Said no. I've been thinking about Harley saying no for a while now. And now Harley is calling me wonderful. Harley does not have a clear idea of the way things work here. Harley has not realized that she's to erase the word 'no' from her vocabulary".

He got angry over it? She should tell him she was joking, that she never really meant to refuse him. God, she's in complete worship of him and he has this sort of doubts?

"Mr. J, I didn't mean to…"

"Don't interrupt me!"

Harleen steps back. The voice. The one that really scares her. The cry of a fierce beast. She hates hearing it. Hates feeling in danger.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you staring at me?"

Pointless questions. He's grabbed her face: she couldn't avert her gaze even if she wanted to. And she does not.

"Wonderful, Harley…"

Impacting the floor is becoming a habit for her at this point. It's how it all begun. He's weighing on her, looking into her eyes.

"What does this tender, portentous flower that bloomed on the Gotham slime see that's wonderful in the face of a clown that can't stop laughing? A lie. Tell me how true is this love, Harley. Persuade me and maybe I'll let you live long enough to enjoy your fifteen minutes in the spotlight. But stop staring".

She doesn't know what's up with herself, but she's feeling sad. She's not afraid. She's not worried that he could hurt her. She's just feeling a wave of melancholy.

"I can't. I couldn't".

She smiles weakly. Persuade him? Of what?

"I would never takes my eyes off you".

She raises her head just enough to graze with her lips the scar on his left cheek, the wider and deeper one. Nom, she wouldn't want him any different.

"You really don't want to tell me what happened?" she attempts again.

She has a faint, very faint suspicion that he might have lied about it to his lawyer, also.

He ignores the question. Just like every other time. He takes into his fingers a lock of her hair and looks at her like she was a strange, exotic beast. "Your ears underwent a mutation overnight".

A dull laughter comes up from her stomach. _Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful… Tell it to me just once…_

"You should stop dropping me down like a sack of potatoes. I hurt all over".

She had never seen the roof of her office from that perspective. There's a crack, probably due to humidity. She'll have to notice the maintenance crew about it.

_Tell me…_

"And you should really lay off that 'please accept my uterus' expression".

_Do you…_

Just another moment and they'll be free to go back to pretending they're doctor and patient. The time for laying oneself bare is over. Another ritual she knows full well. And another day she's missing her chance to ask him.

…_love me?_

She would sell her soul to hear it from him just once, but it's not going to happen. And she will have to live without it, happy to know it's like that anyway. Because she knows it, she feels it, and has no doubts.

_You love me._

"I'm tired. Can I stand up now?"

She's almost praying for a negative answer. Closing her eyes she could almost forget where she is.

"Only if you find me a TV set. I want to see how you fare in the decadent world of showbiz".

_Anything for you. Anything._

Does he really want to see her or is his ego simply looking for further stroking? It doesn't matter to her. Because they're a single entity now. The fact that he enjoys torturing her, delaying any physical contact thus driving her out of her mind, is transparent demonstration that he's not toying with her. If he was simply exploiting her he would not have wasted time. But he didn't.

_You're afraid of me Mr. J, afraid of what you feel. Of what you could go on feeling. You're afraid of losing some of your strength through me, right?_

Makes sense. Perhaps too much. But logic right now is a worthless, cumbersome burden. Harleen grins to herself.

_This is what proves that you love me: that you're running from me. You know that if you were really to become my man then we'd be a couple. _

The simplest means to prevent him from driving her away… That's her territory. And he's simply a prisoner, an inmate that doesn't know the rules.

_You're lying to me, boasting a strength you don't have._

That face, etched with the signs of a life spent as a balancing act is still bent over her, waiting for a positive answer. But she chooses to remain silent. She's not afraid of his reaction when she slips a hand inside the horrendous red jumpsuit that assimilate him to the rest of madmen, maniacs and murderers who make up the hospital's population beyond the safe walls of her study. He could become angry, hurt her for real, even kill her. Some risks are just worth taking.

She keeps her eyes locked with his in silent challenge.

_No rules, right? Not even your set…_

Her clown is not grinning as her fondling turn into determined, assured movements that don't let him hide behind a mask of indifference.

_Exactly…_

The expression on his face makes him like any other man. She knows for certain that _later_, somehow, he's going to make her pay. But right now his breathing turning into wheezing, his hair more disheveled than ever, his flushed face and the way he parts his lips mark her first victory before he surrenders completely falling upon her.

With a curt movement he forces her head back, pressing one side of her face to the floor.

"Dilettante…" he whispers into her ear. "Goofy… clumsy… sometimes even taxing…"

_Yes… certainly…_

Paper napkins. It's what they need urgently now. Happily she has some in her purse.

"Pull such a stunt again, I'll cut those hands of yours off".

_Yes. Certainly._

Harleen grins, his threats notwithstanding. She won this battle. But she's still willing to let him have the war.

"On the TV set… I'll see what I can do. Do you still want that kiss?"

Paulo Morales had known since the night he came to Arkham that he was dealing with a guy that would ruin his life. With him he broke the number one rule of every warden: never be afraid of a patient. The Joker gives him the creeps, and he can't hide it. He's not just a murdering madman. Probably he's not even mad _at all_. But he's still something _else_. When he was a child there was this movie his mother loved very much: it had Liza Minnelli singing in a Berlin cabaret before WWII. Truthfully he did not understand much of the plot back then, but there was one thing he never forgot: the guy with a painted face doing musical numbers with the lead actress. Actually that guy did not do anything out of order, except for winking ambiguously at the camera, yet Paulo could not sleep at night thinking about his face watching him in the dark. The word he would use nowadays would be 'fiendish'. Over time he learned to laugh about it and considers the worthy Joel Grey just an amazing performer.

The Joker, however, is making him feel anew the same shudder he felt as a frightened kid when he heard in the shadows the made-up man's obsessive song.

… __…

And finally he realized that there truly are people around who know how to hurt you and hit you in such a way that you won't be able to get up again. He's one of them.

"Morales Paulo. Older brother of Morales Ricardo… or am I wrong?"

The exact moment the clown mentioned his brother Paulo realized that he was in trouble, and that he'd dragged his whole family in with him. He didn't think for a second that being locked up at Arkham would have been enough to prevent the merciless maniac from getting to Ricardo. Who's a hothead. Ricardo who ends up with bad company and then tries to get away from it by snitching off to the police in exchange for protection. A story repeated dozens of times in Gotham and beyond. They received threats all time, but the Joker did not have to resort to threats at all. He simply had to say his brother's name to make Paulo Morales' legs quiver. Then his laughter came.

"This won't hamper our professional relationship. No, Paulo, not at all. The idea of preventing you from being a good watchdog, all duty, doesn't even touch me. Hit me freely, Paulo, I recover quickly".

He didn't believe it for even a second and wasn't in the least surprised when that guy started politely asking small, insignificant favors. Insignificant, yeah. He couldn't do anything but comply, repeating to himself that he was doing it for Ricardo, that after all those little requests would not have amounted to anything wrong, that it would not have influenced his work in any way and, above it all, that establishing a good relationship with him would have avoided him the fate doctor Connors and that idiot Ian had suffered.

_And I did tell him not to taunt him for the sake of it, damn it…_

But right now his dear buddy the Joker has gone too far. And with doctor Quinzel's approval.

Paulo Morales thought long and hard before resolving to discuss the matter with doctor Arkham. He is aware that should his silent deal with the patient were to be revealed he'd lose his job and would also risk an enquiry, but acting on his own decision would be even worse for him. Thus he found it preferable to tell his boss everything about the latest brilliant bright idea this century's most famous clinic case and his own psychiatrist came out with.

"Ok" Arkham replies with no more than thirty seconds of thought.

For a second Morales believes he heard it wrong. "Pardon?"

"You heard me, Paulo" the boss replies with a sigh. "Once we discard the option of allowing him an evening of relax in the recreation room with the other inmates, because we wouldn't wish to spend the coming months scrubbing blood off the walls, if our dearest patient wants to see his doctor on TV a 14 inch set appears to be the most sensible option to me. At a safe distance from his cell. And patently he won't be able to manage it himself. Feel free to notify Mr. Joker that I'll be keeping him company for the evening myself."

_Well, now I have seen it all._

The only thing Paulo Morales can think is that madness is really contagious, making the tired popular stereotype real. All considered, history says that the Arkhams aren't the most well adjusted of people. Or is it that the Joker has means to blackmail even the master of this house of horrors? That too would not amaze him.

He's about to ask if he should also provide popcorn and beer for this boys' night, but thinks better of it. It's not wise to be a smart aleck with the guy who pays your wage.

"As you wish. You'll bring the TV set, right?" he simply says, eager to close the matter as quickly as possible and leave behind all the Arkham oddities at least for the day.

The glamour world of TV stars isn't glamour at all seen up close. The dressing rooms are tiny and must be shared, to reach the makeup artist there's a queue longer than an end season sale at the mall, the lunch provided by the network is worse than the Arkham slop and the wings look like a construction site.

The only good part is that the bar serves a nonpareil Kaboom Coffee, even better than Apollo's. She ordered a triple one. With quadruple sugar and cream and a massive topping of pip and caramel. Such infinite ecstasy. Perhaps before attempting to approach the hairdressers once more she'll have another one.

"I knew she had to exist somewhere".

Harleen turns to look at the man who just emerged behind her. She could tell that voice in a crowd.

"Excuse me?" she asks, feigning indifference.

Jack Ryder looks very good in person, although close examination reveals that his casual look is in truth calculated to the last detail. The rebellious reporter, the thorn in the side of the rich and powerful, the journalist of the uncomfortable truths. And he's hitting on _her_.

"Kaboom Coffee. I always knew that somewhere there was a woman who just enjoyed it and didn't give a crap about calories". Jack Ryder has a sparkling smile and looks like someone who knows what he's doing.

"Truth to be told, I was considering an encore".

Should she ask him an autograph? Better not, she would rather not be mistaken for some kind of groupie.

"Jack Ryder" the man says extending a hand.

"I know" Harleen says, squeezing it. "Harleen Quinzel".

"The Joker's therapist" he adds. She immediately realizes that it was not the hypercaloric what brought him there, and it immediately makes her smile vanish.

"I wasn't aware that I was so famous" she points out with a hint of sarcasm.

He looks unfazed. "Believe me, you are. People are always eager to bring a beautiful woman under the spotlight, for whatever reason. There's a very good chance that, had the Joker been left to the care of a mild-mannered, middle-aged man, no sensation would have erupted".

Harleen sighs in resignation. It looks like the whole town developed a penchant for peeping through keyholes. But she can't complain about it now. Not after accepting the task of writing about Mr. J. What did he call her? A greedy servant, and a pillar of the system.

"It's not like I plan to spread my legs for the Playboy centerfold" she states. Definitely she won't have another coffee.

Jack Ryder is chuckling. "Modesty, feminism or a possessive boyfriend?"

"All of them. Is there anything I could do for you, Jack Ryder, the politically committed journalist?" she asks with a winning smile. She won't do other interviews without Mr. J's permission. He's the reason they all want to talk with her, after all.

_Great. He truly is a sun that could make even myself shine._

"Two things actually. Give me your phone number and get me permission from Jeremiah Arkham to use cameras within your structure. After the Narrows disaster we haven't been able to shed light on possible flaws in the investigation that followed it. I would really like to get a first-hand look, and pass it to my viewers as well, at how you got back to your feet. It would be a good thing for you as well".

_Sure, I'm so helping you snoop around, as if the vitriolic articles against us are not enough…_

Perhaps she still has a way to strike a deal with that self-assured guy. A deal that would give him a new trail to follow and would provide her a satisfying revenge.

"I'll see what I can do. About Arkham I mean. About the date, as you yourself said, I have a jealous boyfriend. Tell me Ryder, if I were to give you a name and a place would you be able to start from that and discover something that's as secret as is sinister?"

It's nice to see how suddenly interests flares on his face.

"Speak" he says with a knowing smile that she immediately returns.

"Professor Jason Woodrue. Gotham University. Department of botanic".

"The signal".

Kurt Kaminski is not famous for his tolerance. This was one of the reasons why Jeremiah Arkham hired him. So he's not surprised to see him gnash his teeth while adjusting the antenna of the television set right in front of the Joker's cell.

"The. Signal. It sucks. I want to see my shrink on TV, not imagine her. Get off your ass, Kaminski, that's what you're paid for".

Arkham appreciates the newcomer's unexpected self-control. His partner, Roger Tills, closes the door after him. Thus this interesting evening begins. The number one instruction is that the patient's cell must not be opened at any cost. He is not to have a chance to seize the TV set. Knowing his precedents, he might use it to blow them all up.

"Any problem?" he asks the guard forced into the technician's role.

"Yup. He's the problem. Just tell him that he can't have a widescreen and an armchair. And that I'm doing everything I can".

Such a grotesque situation. If he didn't have a specific purpose, Jeremiah Arkham would silence the patient in a single gesture ordering the set away. But it's worth the risk.

The Joker is looking at him with his head cocked, grinning as usual. By now he thinks himself immune to it. They're both playing their cards ignoring the other's motivations. Provided such a monster has anything like that.

_Escaping. And Harleen Quinzel. These are his priorities now. He's got no chance of the firmer, but the latter might be discussed, provided he'll let me apply the scientific method to his impulses._

"You're not happy with the service, Mr. Joker?" he tells him, returning his derisive grin. Then he has Tills bring him a chair. He won't be looking at the screen much tonight. The patient's face is much more interesting.

The Joker answers with an unintelligible muttering. He's checking him out intently and Arkham lets him do it, despite a palpable, unhindered hostility. He really seems to dislike him. Like most inmates he's probably identifying him with the cause of his confinement. A common, elementary behavior.

"You should thank me for this special treatment, you realize that?" he points out, hoping to garner a morsel of benevolence from his addled mind.

And yet the Joker simply shrugs. "Thank you a lot, doc. How can I return the favor?"

_We shall see about it_, Arkham thinks as he looks at the photograph hanging on the wall by a piece of tape.

His eyes must be playing tricks on him. The red and black mask with her face painted white is _not_ Harleen Quinzel. It _can't_ be Harleen Quinzel.

_So this is what she passed you in that piece of footage. Her photo. Her photo in clown makeup._ A ripple of mirth courses through him, but Jeremiah Arkham forces himself to suffocate it.

"What's up, doc? Don't like my loft's furniture?" the lunatic asks. "I know, it truly needs a woman's hand to help me keep it in order and provide a gentler touch".

Kaminski finally managed to find passable definition just in time for the live broadcast. Arkham lets him and Tills leave. Soon he'll have every answer her needs. Nobody had a chance to study such a situation until now.

Lydia Filangeri handles things even better than Mike Engel. She possesses a grace the egotistical late lamented, celebrated with a close-up hanging on the wall, could not have exhibited to save his life. With a suitably solemn expression she introduces a clip on the Gotham General bombing ending with the still unanswered question: who's the Joker?

_Maybe we're a wee bit too obsessed with this fellow_, reflects Arkham. And the fellow in question does not look at all bothered by it.

The patient's interest is only aroused once the report is over and Filangeri introduces her guests. Harleen Quinzel is looking concentrated and alert.

_Almost like a spinster librarian_, thinks Arkham watching the sepia trouser suit and pearl necklace. An outfit that brings him back to the day before the Joker came and that she stopped wearing as of recent. That's the way he likes her. He feels he can trust her in that version. _Had I not seen what I saw, I'd be tempted to believe her_.

"Look at her doc. So subdued. So self-controlled. Prim and proper. So much into her part. You all want her like that. You want to kill the mischievous leprechaun that lives inside her. But she's not like you and you know it too well. You wouldn't be here otherwise. What can you possibly hope to get from me?"

The question does not take him unaware: he's heard it often.

"Answers".

It's always like this. Perhaps Harleen Quinzel has them, but apparently is disinclined to partake of them with anyone who's not her patient.

_Her patient?_

"Sure". The grin on the Joker's face grows more provocative. "Why can't you just admit that you're nothing but a voyeur with a degree? A curious scientist who wants to make sure that his rare specimens will copulate. This is what you see when you spy onto me and my little doctor. A weird case to study in slide form. You're just crazy about us, aren't you? We're an unexpected stroke of good luck. This is why you handed her to me even though the idea of leaving her alone at my mercy gives you goose-flesh. Because you hope to write down everything that's going to happen from now on. Tell me who's the monster doc, me or you?"

_It's called research. What do you know about it? Sacrifices are part of the package, but at least they have a purpose._

Is he just rationalizing or actually saying what he thinks? Jeremiah Arkham does not linger on the thought. He surely knows how to keep the situation under control. The notion that the Joker realized that if he allows him to interact with Harleen Quinzel is merely because he finds their dynamics intellectually stimulating.

"Will you still look so smug, doc, when I'll cut her into many, many tiny pieces?"

The way this lunatic waves his fingers and half-closes his eyes. He wonders how can Quinzel tolerate his presence two hours a day.

_What a stupid question. She's smitten with this freak of nature, the Lord knows why._

"I could send you one of her limbs as a souvenir. Which one would you prefer, doctor? Pay no attention to her when she blathers that I'd never hurt her. She's naïve and in love. And once I'll have killed her it will be your conscience that will itch".

Arkham feels rage mount inside him. "What game are you playing at, clown? Do you realize that I could take her away from you snapping a finger? And more importantly, why are you so calm? Too much for my taste. A few unfortunate incidents but not a single kill. It's not like you, you should have gutted someone by now".

"Sounds almost like you're disappointed. But I told you: the doctor will be the first one".

Arkham is about to reply but the other man gestures for silence.

"Don't distract me. Now she's going to talk about me. Let me listen. She can be great fun whenever she's not aiming for it. Dear miss Filangeri just mispronounced her name. Ten to one that my sugar lump will blow off before this is over".

Keeping that complacent, peaceful smile is no trifle when the temptation to stand up and deliver a quick one-two to Lydia Filangeri is overwhelming. She already had to fight the impulse to leave when she came face to face with Odin Markus, invited as 'expert'. She put on a brave front and greeted him with all the venom she could squeeze into a phrase like "Congratulations for your latest book, professor".

It felt good to see him embarrassed. "I hope that book won't be a problem to you, miss Quinzel".

"Why should it?" she replied acidly. "Maybe because it's made off my work? Don't worry. Your analysis of the basic concepts of my theory on the rarest paraphilias is quite incomprehensible. Had you plundered my notes properly, those phrases would have made more sense".

The ancient fountain of knowledge has always looked quite a bit slimy. Didn't she choose him exactly for that quality back in college? Harleen knows instinctively how to tell a slobbering fool who'd do anything to get a hand under a twenty years old girl's skirt.

_Unfortunately I've always had more brains than you, professor. And you'll have to acknowledge it soon._

"A flawless reasoning" he replied, laughing nervously.

_I can't believe it._

And now the stage assistant had him sit right in front of her. So she'll have to endure the sight of his snout the whole evening. Add to it the rampant journalist who's virtually dispersing in the wind Mike Engel's ashes.

"We have here with us doctor Harlene Quinzelle. Good evening. You performed the psychiatric survey on the Joker and are currently in charge of his therapy, is that correct?"

A dance of evil thoughts takes place in her mind. She wonders how many big wigs must have that moron bedded to be where she is. She wonders why she's wearing such a bright lipstick with such a dark complexion and mostly why can't she bother to do the minimal research necessary to avoid just opening her mouth and embarrass herself.

"Quinzel" she replies, and miss Filangeri glares at her as if she just started a magical chant. "Harleen Quinzel, if you please".

Tonight's mashed potatoes were truly something. James Gordon would have enjoyed them better had more words been exchanged during the meal. Things used to be better: although his job put him in danger on a regular basis, there's always been good chemistry between his wife and him. Barbara never went the passive-aggressive way to force him onto changing his chosen path. She always knew that joining the police was a choice grounded on ethics for him. What's changed now? Now that Gotham's finest are under him, Jim Gordon can't handle his private life anymore.

"What about going back to Chicago?" Barbara asks him as if it's a trifle, sitting by his side on the sofa while apparently absorbed by the monthly review she's holding. "Gotham is not a good place for kids. Gotham is not a good place for anyone. I would like them not to grow with the idea that the rest of the world also live in such a crazy fashion".

"You mean they don't?" he asks, repenting it immediately. Once again silence creeps between them.

She can't ask him to leave. To give in to such a temptation. He thinks about it all too often, and feels a coward for it. There just are too many things he can't turn his back to.

"I'm sorry, Barbara. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

She answers by simply sighing as Lydia Filangeri, on the screen, glides competently between all the supporting cast of the Joker case. The real protagonist is there in photo only, while those maddened bees buzz annoyingly, yammering about his final fate.

Wayland, the lawyer, has only one word on his lips: "non compos mentis". And doctor Quinzel supports him.

"She looks like someone else.." whispers Gordon watching the elegant, composed woman. Was the crazy Harlequin just a mask? He wishes he could be sure. But this would not change the essence of the matter: the mask and the doctor are absolutely on the same page.

"It's not my duty to determine how this person is to be punished for his crimes. I was simply asked to determine whether we're dealing with psychotic behavioral issues or not. I analyzed the case and the answer is yes: the subject suffers of quite undeniable mental imbalance, _folie de grandeur_ and inability to rapport himself to reality. I'm not saying that the criminal acts my patient, I hope I will be excused for refusing to call him 'the Joker', are not cringe-inducing, nor that, had I discovered mental soundness, I would not have been the first to call for exemplary punishment. Things simply went otherwise. Whatever decision the court shall take, I hope the subject will serve his sentence, which, I reiterate, I consider more than due, in a structure fitting his condition. This does not mean that he'll be back in the streets any time soon: there's a high chance that he'll _never_ be free again. But he needs adequate care, and an environment that could manage his needs. The problem, I believe, is that public opinion sees the Arkham criminal asylum as some sort of seaside resort. Believe me, it's not".

Doctor Quinzel seems to be perfectly at ease, but Lydia Filangeri is not the placid sort. She loves teasing her guests. Talia Al Ghul recognizes in her the spirit of someone ready to fight with teeth and nail not to concede a single point to other debaters.

"What do you think of this, Shiva?" she asks her bodyguard who's massaging her feet as she enjoys the show on GCN. The wide-screen set hanging on the wall has excellent definition; she's able to make out every single tiny twitch around the board and give it her own interpretation.

"About what?" Shiva asks, eyes fixed on her calves and her own firm hands.

Her father placed her at her side ten years ago. Talia never thought she needed someone to watch over her, but she likes her company. She does not talk a lot and seems unimpressed with the lavish interior of the Gotham Grand suite, but is a good listener and is capable of being lethal when necessary.

She settles deeper on the couch and steals a candied orange peel from the tray on the table. "About our reason to be here. And tonight's programs".

Shiva throws her a cutting glance with her piercing black eyes. "Your father would not approve of what you're doing. The Joker is the antithesis of all his teachings".

Talia grins at her. "You think so?"

This time she doesn't agree with her.

"Yes, we could see it very well when your gates cracked open during Crane's tenure" Lydia Filangeri insists. "If I'm not mistaken you were behind his release, doctor Quinzelle".

"Quinzel. And 'discharge' is the correct term".

The diminutive blonde psychiatrist is gathering the majority of points. Talia is happy about it.

"See, Shiva, my father's aim, when he came to this city, was to set the downfall of Gotham in motion. It would be pointless for me to dismiss the most powerful weapon on the market, the one that already caused a madness such, that it brought the place into chaos".

Shiva shakes her head. "Are you sure you can control him? There's no reward he's after, and you know that well".

"He's after something, I tell you. I can offer him the best entertainment in his life. We share a vision, after all. We're not crude mobsters, we are idealists".

Lydia Filangeri runs to another of her guests. The mother of the guy the Joker tortured and killed in the video that still has record views on YouTube. A blow below the belt to even the field.

"That woman, that eccentric shrink, is an unexpected stroke of good luck. Our biggest concern was how to get the Joker out of Arkham. She'll take care of it. We only have to make sure she doesn't make a mess of it. She's new to the fascinating world of illegality".

Indeed, her father's prophecies were correct. In Gotham the wolves are at other wolves' throats on every corner. She'll have definitive proof of it once she meets the beasts that will bite Pino Maroni's throat. Then, as a new gang war escalates, Gotham will do her duty and burn to the ground.

_And the clown shall be my small, functional match_.

"This will make an enemy out of Bruce Wayne, did you consider that? What will you do then? Will you welcome him as an enemy?"

Shiva doesn't leave her off the hook. The picture was too rosy. A blow had to come, and it did. Talia closes her eyes. Bruce Wayne. The admiration in her father's words, and the sadness for his betrayal in phrases whispered to her ears.

"You'll bring him back to us, Talia, someday. You'll show him the mistake he's done".

She accepted. Doty, she had told herself. Bruce Wayne. Now things have changed.

"I don't know, Shiva, I still hope for things to change. That he will come with me".

She'll tell him the right words, seduce him again if necessary. Or she'll eliminate him. But only as a last resort.

Alfred Pennyworth has learned to read his Bruce Wayne's face like an open book. Sometimes he realizes that he knows some facets of his personality that his master himself ignores. Be it pain, worry or a brief moment of peace, he needs no words to get them. The same happened with master Thomas. Bruce Wayne is not like his father, but in the deepest sense that makes honesty and integrity the driving forces of his being. Thomas Wayne acted in the open, in full view, politely yes never wavering. His son is a creature forged by darkness and suffering. Alfred doesn't love him less for it: master Bruce needs him more than his father did. Because master Bruce needs a firm hand to keep his hold on reality, to remind him that the Bat is an icon, and nothing more. A hard task, when the world of the Bat absorbs every second of his days. Alfred Pennyworth wishes he could wrestle the remote control from him and switch channel. On channel seven there's "Singing in the rain". Instead, the obsession for the Joker continues. Alfred ignores the brouhaha of lawyers and psychiatrists as he keeps running his feather duster on the shelves, a thing he'd never do during the evening if it didn't provide an excuse to keep an eye on his employer.

"Distasteful" master Bruce says in the voice he uses whenever something worries him deeply, which happens at least thrice per day.

"What, if I may ask, sir?"

He expects one in several possible answers. He could find fault in such a sort of program. Or in the Joker's law team. Or in the lady who's currently speaking: the psychiatrist.

"Her. This kind of madmen's doctor. She said perfectly sensible things, except for two tiny details. I don't think the Joker needs more medical care than I need a blond wig. And earlier, while the footage on the National Bank robbery was on, the camera was briefly on her and I could see for an instant a pleasured grin".

"There's a possibility that she was thinking about something completely unrelated, sir" Alfred points out, valiantly trying to get the image of Bruce Wayne crossed with Goldilocks out of his mind.

"Perhaps. But I think I'll be watching her carefully" Mr. Wayne asserts firmly.

_Exactly as expected. Although spying on girls is quite the novelty._

"Are you planning to go out tonight, sir?" he asks, knowing for certain that the answer will be affirmative.

Lydia Filangeri is almost out of ammo. In less than five minutes the show will be over.

Jeremiah Arkham can be justifiably proud of Quinzel's behavior. She defended her position while keeping a neutral appearance. That he knows such appearance to be fake is of little concern. And he can also be happy of the Joker's behavior: his attention peaked during his dear doctor's turns to speak, and reached considerable levels during the services that recounted his deeds with proper disgust.

_You can feel validated only when people take notice, isn't it so? Is this what you like in her? That she worships you? Narcissist. But then, isn't it like that for everyone? We exist because other people perceive us._

Jeremiah Arkham reminds himself that it's not the time to brush up the basics. Something's happening to his important patient. Now his grin is purely ecstatic.

"Now's the time. Here it comes" he says, pointing at the screen euphorically.

Lydia Filangeri has fumbled again. "As only a few moments ago doctor Harlene Quinzelle said…"

Arkham is beginning to think that she might be doing it on purpose.

"Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. You really can't say it, right? But it's not difficult. Try to spell it" the victim of the verbal wreck hisses through her teeth.

He never saw such murderous fury in her eyes before. Probably Filangeri is going to sleep uneasily for a few days.

"I knew!" The clown's enthusiasm erupts. "Isn't she fabulous when she gets angry? I knew it. She couldn't hold it back, she just couldn't. Good girl, pumpkin. Now get up and strangle her with an electric cable!"

_That would be the icing on the cake._

Arkham feels rivulets of cold sweat roll down his back. Mercifully, the closing credits prevent a fight from erupting in front of the world, but now there's another problem. Apparently the Joker can't stop laughing hysterically. And it's not a trick. It will take a huge dose of sedatives to calm him. But after all he behaved himself: maybe he'll order Tills and Kaminski to spare him the evening ration of blows. Maybe.

After hitting bottom one must forcibly rise again. Harleen Quinzel is really starting to believe it. Two days after her appearance in Gotham Tonight, her life seems to be shinier than ever. Newspapers wrote that Lydia Filangeri really couldn't fill the late Mike Engel's shoes. She thinks she could ascribe part of the merit to herself. It wasn't total triumph, but it came close to that. She just couldn't overcome the mourning mothers. Not much to do when crying parents come into play.

_After all it's what the network moguls are aiming for. Share. A nice massacre, grief-stricken relatives and bingo, mission accomplished._

This doesn't bother her. She defended Mr. J to the best of her ability without falling into the trap of evident bias. Even Dr. Arkham offered some guarded praise. But it was Mr. J's reaction that put her in a good mood.

"Passable" he told her. Which, to him, is really pouring out his heart.

To celebrate, she bought a t-shirt with his face on the front. Well, rather a sketch of his face. Two black blots and a red grinning arc on white.

"I'll wear it to sleep" she announced him. And Mr. J mugged in disapproval.

"You make me feel an objectified man. A new, but rather unpleasant experience".

God, she treasures him. He and Arkham watched _Gotham_ _tonight_ together. She wishes she could have witnessed it. The boss gave her some strange recommendations: unaccountably, he now looks to be of the idea that he could kill her any time soon, without a reason.

_So what if he does?_

It would be paradise. The tragic crowning of an extraordinary love story. What would her Joker whisper to her in her last moments? Idle question, it's not going to happen. He's far from thinking to hurt her. If it was just a game or irritation, he'd already have done it. Perhaps she'll tackle the issue once she'll have made him esc… _once I get him in front of a commission, after I coached him extensively on how to look completely sane, to have him dismissed._

Truthfully that could prove a difficult moment. Once he's out of Arkham. But it's a worthwhile hazard.

_He could decide to keep me by his side forever. It would be magnificent. I'll make it so that he wants it, too._

Is there anything she wants beyond that? No, nothing.

She's the only Gothamite who doesn't mind working on the weekend., who enjoys buying her groceries in a hurry Saturday night at a supermarket and spending her evening watching TV, going to bed early to wake up on Sunday morning to get back to work. And if she only could she would camp in her office, or directly into Mr. J's cell. Because she pines for him every moment they're away from each other. Her mother used to always tell her.

"When the right one comes, Leeny, you'll see him coming from afar. And it will seem to you as you had always been at his side".

Just like that, like a broken clock twice a day. The strange thing is that she can't wrap her mind around the notion that every other woman can feel as she feels for someone that's not Mr. J. He's one in a million, wonderful, extraordinary and every other man is nothing compared with him. Sometimes she's amazed by her own good luck.

_Luck?_

Oh no, it's something completely different. They searched for each other, and chose to be one. It couldn't have gone otherwise.

_That time… ten years ago… that boy told me his name. Why can't I remember it? Johnny? No, it wasn't Johnny. Definitely it wasn't Johnny._

The sun has long set when she enters her condo's parking lot. But it will be springtime soon, and the days are getting longer. She can already feel its scent in the air, amidst the whiffs of smog.

_I don't want him to spend the warm season locked inside a cage. They made a squalid caterpillar of him. I so wish he'd regain his butterfly colors._

Harleen parks the car and opens the door to take her groceries off the back seat. She discovered he likes stuffed eggs. She'll cook him a platter to brighten his Sunday.

_And as side dish some lettuce with shrimps and balsamic vinegar._

The reflection that Mr. J is more the type for medium-rare steak brings a smile to her lips. Oh, the blood. But for that they'll have to wait to be far from Arkham.

Harleen Quinzel is not an easily scared person: working with schizophrenic murderers day after day she learned not to fall into groundless panic. This is why she turns to look above her shoulder a moment too late, when the steps behind her have come too close. And realizing that she's surrounded by three men with their faces covered with a nylon mask she remembers what genuine, ancestral fear is, the fear of a physically weak female who ends up being prey.

The purse. She'll surrender her purse, hoping that they don't want anything else. The thought makes her terror peak. Irrationally she tries to slip between two of them. Wrong move.

_I know him know him know him who is he?_

One of the men grabs her by her throat and slams her against the car. "What's this, lady?"

_This voice this voice and this pungent eau…_

She can't order her thoughts. A fist connects straight with her face.

"What does it mean, that monster needs _help_?"

Hitting on the asphalt isn't nice. No adrenaline. No Mr. J to both hurt and send her into orbit. There are only those three schmucks driving her to exhaustion with kicks to the back and stomach. She must stand up, try to run. She can't stay there. But it hurts too much.

"We know what kind of help you give him. You suck, know that? What, honest citizens aren't enough? Let's set things straight".

_No. Anything but that. Please, no._

She closes her eyes, waiting for the worst to happen and determined to struggle with all her strength.

_Ricky… Thomas…?_, she suddenly thinks as a dark, unexpected shadows lands among them.

_Now when you work it out I'm worse than you  
Yeah when you work it out, I want it too  
Now when you work out where to draw the line  
Your guess is as good as mine..._

Where do we go, nobody knows  
Don't ever say you're on your way down, when…  
God gave you style and gave you grace  
And put a smile upon your face

(Coldplay, _God put a smile upon your face_)


	14. Thunderstorm

**AMOUR FOU - XIV**

**Therapy n°10**

**"Thunderstorm"**

_Never thought you'd make me perspire_

_Never thought I'd do you the same_

_Never thought I'd fill with desire_

_Never thought I'd feel so ashamed_

_Me and the dragon can chase all the pain away_

_So before I end my day, remember_

_My sweet prince, you are the one_

_My sweet prince_

_you are the one_

(Placebo, _My Sweet Prince_)

In the coming days Harleen Quinzel shall curse herself for not gleaning a sufficient number of details from such an experience.

He's strong. It was the first thing she noticed. He picked her up from the ground with a single arm.

"Hold tightly" he told her with his deep, throaty strange voice.

She had wondered whether he was straining his vocal cords or he had some strange gizmo deforming the sounds attached to his throat. Then she closed her eyes and clung to his neck.

She used to envision his costume as having the texture of tire rubber, instead the dark fabric is viscid and vitreous. His cape produces a deafening noise when he unfolds it to gain height with. He's probably using a rope. She wonders why he hasn't simply taken her in his arms and carried her up the stairs, if he really did not feel like using the elevator. Then she asks herself what happened to her aggressors. Finally she reflects that Pamela will never believe her, but remembers that Pamela is gone.

When all is said and done she's thinking of nothing when he gently lays her down on the sofa in her living room. _Rick Thomas assaulted me… and I've been a member of his gym for four years…_

No part of her body isn't in pain. They thrashed her badly, but it could have been worse. She doesn't wish to linger on the idea. She starts to shake, but knows it's merely the shock. If he hadn't shown up…

Batman. How many can claim to have seen him up close? Some even question his existence. But he's there, a dark silhouette against her open window.

"You must go to a hospital. Then to the police. You must report this aggression".

_The hospital…_

Bruised. Grazed. Maybe a cracked rib. Thankfully her head is unscathed.

_My shoulder… I can't move it… it's probably sprained…_

"I was saved by the Batman…" she whispers. "What are you doing here? Don't you have some big heist to prevent? Some big shot hostage to set free? Some mobster to throw into jail? A police car to run from?"

_Ingrate. I'm an ingrate. I should thank him, nothing but thank him._

She talks to much, even Mr. J told her as much. She should learn to appreciate silence, especially her own.

"I'm watching you" the shadowy figure replies. "I've been watching you for two nights. What you're doing is wrong".

Two nights? At night she sleeps. And the thought that a giant bat is watching her does not sit well at all with her.

"What I'm doing….?"

Fine, he saved her. But now she would really like to be left alone. She has to tend to her wounds and… Call the police? She doesn't feel like it. They'll probably think she was asking for trouble.

"The Joker is a murderous maniac" the dark vigilante states.

_No, really?..._

Harleen clenches her teeth. Even the smallest movement causes her atrocious pain. She must take a painkiller as soon as possible.

"He's using you, and you fell into his trap. You're caught inside a delirium, Harleen. What do you think is happening to you? The Joker doesn't love you. The Joker cannot love. The Joker is interested in only one person: himself".

Being lectured by a vigilante in a chiropteran costume is the last thing she needs. Why would this guy hold the absurd idea that he's the only person who really knows Mr. J? The only one Mr. J is interested in? True, her darling can't stop talking about him. A bit too much, in fact. He considers him to be his perfect countercheck. She, instead, is his half, no matter what Batman thinks about it. No one is planning to take his place as nemesis, but he must not try to take the role of companion away from her.

She finds herself laughing, terrible flashes of pain notwithstanding.

"Clichés" she explains while studying his inexpressive mask. "Rhetoric. Call words. This is my field, B-man. What do you think love is? It's a natural chemical process. Glandular secretions. Visual and olfactory stimuli. Even the worst sadist in the world can fall in love. Even the most deranged mind. What changes is the result. Chocolate, bouquets, diamond rings… is this how you envision it? To sacrifice yourself for the other. Tears, tenderness aren't the rule, man in black. Get off your high horse and you'll realize that love is not a prerogative of the 'good guys'. Deal with it".

She can't stand him. The hero, the martyr. Who gave him the right to be what he is? Why did his illness, his psychosis, his cheap Ubermensch complex turned him into a legend while Mr. J has to be locked up? Positive madness. Negative madness. Good. Evil. Who decided?

"Rachel Dawes" the Dark Knight says clearly. "She was your age. Had a whole life to live. She too was in love, Harleen. She too wanted to be happy. Your protégé blew her up. They couldn't even find all the pieces. Why shouldn't he have the same fate in store for you? Think about it".

Why should she think about it? Yes, she remembers her and her guinea pig face. Harvey Dent's assistant. Harvey Dent's _woman_, the driving force behind her fast, extraordinary career. If Mr. J, who can be a real gossip whenever he feels like that, is to be believed, she had a story with the Batman behind her heroic betrothed's back. Apparently he was right.

_Because, and it's self-evident, he prefers blondes_, she almost says, but would rather he doesn't go on with his sermon.

"We'll keep him in Arkham" she says. She really needs to swallow a couple of pills. If that guy was half as clever as he thinks he'd realize this is not the time to chat. "So you and your charges can go on calling me 'the Joker's bitch' and feel morally superior for this. So the matter is not your business anymore. Don't worry, I'll keep him close to my bosom. He won't bother you again".

Harleen doesn't immediately realize that she's been speaking to no one. Gotham's own legend left, leaving the window open. How rude of him. Disappearing like that while a lady is speaking, without so much as saying goodbye…

_Ok, what now?_

She levers on her elbows, trying to get up. She has to reach the medicine cabinet. And close that window. And…

She clenches her teeth, then gives up and falls back. The phone is on the table right by her side. She reaches out with an arm and manages to get hold of it. The pain makes her hands shake. She breathes deeply until she regains her composure, then finds the number in the memory. Joan does not answer, and even her cell phone is switched off. After all it's Saturday night. A good doctor should always be available, but a head doctor can afford not to. Doctor Arkham? Yes, maybe she should call him, or…

_Where are you, Pam?_

Only two positions above Joan's numbers. All considered he's the only one she feels she can trust right now. And he answers after only one ring.

Jonathan Crane is by her side in less than a hour. He must have skipped every traffic light in Gotham.

Meanwhile Harleen was able to drag herself to the door, but when she lets him in she's on her knees and has to ask for his help to stand.

"It's nothing, nothing" she tells him before he has the time to speak.

She must have briefly lost her senses because she can't remember how she came to be in the bedroom. But she realizes that the simple fact that Jonathan is holding her hand makes her feel better.

"What's up, doc…" she says, but his expression is devoid of any trace of fun.

"What happened? Who did that? A patient?"

She sakes her head weakly. "Three boneheads in the parking lot down here. It could have gone worse had it not been for Batman".

Jonathan looks skeptic. He has some nerve. As if he didn't have more than one run-in with the Bat…

"Will you help me?" she asks. Right now it doesn't matter if he believes her or not.

"Harley, you know I'm not registered anymore. I don't…"

"Damn it, Crane!" even getting angry is painful.

_Relax relax relax…_

"I just need to get back up. I don't care for what they decided, you are and remain a doctor. An _outstanding_ doctor. So spare me. And check me out and see if I have some kind of internal damage".

He stops protesting. "You keep everything in your bathroom, right?" he asks, then leaves the room without waiting for an answer.

In the following twenty minutes Harleen Quinzel is suddenly reminded of why Jonathan Crane used to be seen as the best by far.

"I'm sitting on your bed, and am taking your clothes off. I knew it would happen sooner or later" he says, getting a smile from her. But in the meanwhile his hands are becoming capable and professional. "Superficial wounds. Welts. A plate would be ideal. You took quite a lot of kicks to your stomach, I see".

"I'm not spitting blood, Jonny".

He throws her a ferocious glance, the one he reserves for unruly patients. "I have to put your shoulder back into place. Clench your teeth, because it will…"

A sudden shock. She can't even scream. She just sits up, mouth open, praying that the excruciating pain will go away quickly.

"… hurt. Okay, well done. What, are you crying? Be strong. There's a lollipop for you if you behave yourself".

_Fuck you._

It's getting better. Knowing that she's not going to require stitches consoles her. She wants to avoid going to the hospital at any cost. She doesn't wish to be questioned.

"I want to bathe, Jonathan. I fell on the asphalt. I must be teeming with germs".

She knows herself. Soon, once her worry for her wounds will fade, she'll start to itch all over. But her medic for one night seems to have a good time torturing her. Gotham city's new favorite pastime.

She's starting to feel dizzy. The pills she swallowed are on the way to clouding her mind. She finally stops resisting. She accepts his help for a sponge bath, like a cripple, and realizes that she's being handled by a man who has a crush on her only in flashes.

_What a sweet person. My dear Jonathan. So kind. So proper. You even avert your eyes as you help me get dressed again. And you blush like a little kid. You're just like him: the others can't see you for what you really are._

"Why did you call me, Harley?" he asks while looking inside her drawers to fill a purse. "Just in case they decide to keep you for the night" he explained. It really looks like there's no way to avoid going to the hospital. But she doesn't dare telling him that they'll have to tie her down to keep her there.

"Because you're a friend" she replies. She doesn't have many left.

"No, what I mean is…" Jonathan briefly abandons his quest for the right towel. How absurd: they'll be back before he can think. "Harley, where's your boyfriend? Why isn't he here?"

Jonathan Crane's eyes are limpid, innocent. And still, behind that kindly face lies a world of madness and terror.

_Tell me, what it's like to be one of Arkham's inmates? To change your perspective completely?_

"He can't move. Literally. They don't let him out. He scares this city's good citizens. Good citizens like the trio down in the parking lot".

She should not dwell on it. She should forget it as quickly as possible. Or perhaps not? She has a name already. What would Mr. J do with that name? He's use it to obtain the remaining two. Then he'd go medieval on those creeps.

"For the love of God, Harley…" Jonathan's voice takes a pleading tone. She knows what he's thinking very well: that the buzz he's been hearing is true. So what? Why doesn't he call Ricky Thomas so that he can finish his work?

"Please. I can't accept such a lecture from you, Mr. Scarecrow. You know, after all we're more alike than I could think when I took you as a patient".

He closes his lips together and remains silent. They're two loonies, and they're alone. They might as well stop pretending to be part of the social fabric. Perhaps someday they'll set a wonderful poker table up, she, Jonathan and Mr. J. And Batman.

At the Memorial they earnestly tried to force her to stay for the night. She offered her best resistance. Her being a doctor helped avoiding an argument. They asked her who offered her first help.

"I did it myself" she lied, sparing Jonathan to be dragged into the mess. Not a very credible story. She could never have reached some of the wounds on her back.

The stop at the police station was even more frustrating. They all, dear Montoya more than most, had that face. The "poor dear, here's what comes from associating with the Joker". Because he's always guilty, one way or another. Guilty of unleashing deviant behavior, instilling fear into the minds and deeds of uncensored people. They probably think it's a very sound reasoning; she finds it laughable and generic.

_Your favorite scapegoat._

Why did it have to be Montoya? Why did she come running when she heard of her instead of leaving her to the care of some faceless cop she never saw before? At least she didn't get Gordon. Don't they have anything serious to do at Criminal police?

She answered every question they asked. Let them take a picture of the welts and bruises on her body. She even resisted the temptation to send them all to Hell when someone tried to suggest that she shouldn't have gotten medical help, thus muddling the proofs, and tolerated the looks of disdain for her companion. But when Renee Montoya asked her if she recognized her aggressors, she lied. His voice. The scent of the sporting male perennially hunting for game. She knows enough to realize that they're pretty poor evidence and that Ricky Thomas would not need any help from the Hyden, Jones, Thompson & Wayland law firm to be released and even demand damage payment from GCPD. And all those TV scenes with zealous forensic agents prowling for DNA fragments border science-fiction and are not so much as mentioned regarding assault and battery. And after all there's only one thing that interests the cops tonight: the Batman. And discussing him with those people put her in an incredibly melancholy mood.

_I'm coming for you, Ricky… You simply don't know what a _huge _mistake you made tonight._

"Do you want me to stay?" Jonathan asks her as the car moves sluggishly under the pouring rain. A veritable storm, unexpected and fierce, is gathering. So in tune with the setting and her mood. "I don't feel like leaving you alone".

He's truly sweet.

_Give me a bit of your toxin, Jonathan. There's someone I want to scare._

She likes thunders. Always did. They're powerful and beautiful. There's something magical and uncontrollable whenever electricity unleashes all its violence.

"No. Take me to Arkham. I think I want to sleep there tonight" she replies.

A storm and a gloomy castle filled with madmen. When did she start feeling at home at Arkham, considering it her own nest, unhealthy yet indispensible?

He says nothing. He just throws her a glance, then returns his attention to the road, almost indiscernible under the torrent of water and the yellow blades of the car lights.

"The weather is going mad" he comments, purposefully changing topic. "We had a spring-like winter. Wouldn't want the cold to come right now".

True. Very true. And she appreciates his switching topic.

Jonathan Crane. Is that really him, or is it just an empty husk? That man came close to destroying Gotham. Now he sells books, and seems to have no regrets. Or perspectives.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan".

"Don't mind". He studies her out of the corner of his eye. "If we don't help out our friends… Would you like me to come drive you home tomorrow, Harley? You have no car…"

"I'm sorry for what I did to you" she interrupts him. Everything is far too clear in its extreme horror. "I took everything that made you unique from you. To give you what? Your research is gone. Even your decision to try and attempt to set everything in order. That too did not go down well. And now? Do you ever find yourself thinking about it, Jonathan? About what you were, and what you're now?"

His eyes are locked to the road. He's tense now, she can't miss it. It takes him a while to reply, and ultimately it sounds as if he's mostly trying to persuade himself.

"You cured me, Harley. Gave me back a life worth living".

_Sure_.

"It's not true". She's almost despairing. Everything she did until this day seems to weigh so much now. And she believed in it until recently. She _pretended_ to believe in it, even when the truth became obvious. But now she can't hide any longer. "I just destroyed the perturbing element. Without caring for you, for anyone I sent back into the streets, perfectly sane and reintegrated, wandering around asking themselves why all of a sudden the world has become grey. You should hate me. I expect you to. It's what I deserve".

Jonathan suddenly stops on the side of the road. She has no clue of where they are.

"Don't say anything further, Harley. It happens to us all, at least once. It's one of the bumps in our line of work, only it's gotten you real bad. It's a profession that engenders remarkable stress levels. And tonight you're shaken by what happened to you. If you want to quit, find another job, well, do. But only after a relaxing vacation and a lot of consideration. It's what you need now".

_Gotcha, doc_.

Did he notice that he talked about "our line of work"? Jonathan is wrong, stress is just one of the factors. In truth it's as if someone lit a bulb inside her head. She always did her best to understand what her patients were about. Maniacs, murderers, nutters. Now that she knows the only way to do that, it's as if her whole life was based on a single massive misunderstanding.

_Madness?_

"Do they need another clerk at the bookstore where you work?" she asks.

She should stop torturing, hurting Jonathan.

"You could fly to Hawaii and burn out the little treasure you put together with your self-pseudo-help books" he invites her, restarting the engine. "You're quivering. Close your eyes and relax, Harley".

She unconsciously obeys. Self-pseudo-help books. Once Jonathan Crane used to say it far more spitefully. That was before falling victim of that eccentric crush on her.

_And I refused to go for it because I thought it was not ethical. How do things change._

"I have to stop here" Jonathan says, stopping the car by the fence. "I'm not authorized personnel anymore. How are you going to do with the purse and the umbrella? Harley… I don't think it's a good idea to spend your night here".

_Afraid of ghosts? 'I am Martin Hawkins' specter… Behold my smoking skull…'_

"I'll be fine. Thank you, Jonathan". She leans towards him and stamps a kiss onto his lips, swearing to herself that she'll never let them do to Mr. J what they did on the genius that Jonathan Crane was.

Arkham, the hell. Arkham, infamy and folly. How beautiful under the storm, so dark and threatening. But it's beautiful only from outside. Its stomach assimilates those who stay inside it too long. Arkham is an addiction. Time for cold turkey.

Marla Smyth opens her eyes and mouth wide as Harley walks into the infirmary, then offers her a cup of hot tea from her thermos. She's been in Arkham for twenty years and never has been in an incident with a patient, unlike her male coworkers, all younger and stronger. The day Mr. J was shot she wasn't on call. This is why her Puddin's shoulder now resembles a road map. Harleen is sure that Marla would have patched him up conscientiously. She's the only one to call the inmates "those unfortunate fellows".

"What a shameful thing" she then says, letting deep indignation filter in her voice. "A girl can't go around safely anymore. No way to live quietly, in this city. Are you well doctor? Have you seen the police?"

Everyone's obsessed with the police apparently. But Marla means only well: she really believes that there's a way to turn everything that's wrong in this world right.

Harleen asks her a bed. She could sleep in her office, of course. She could. But she keeps repeating herself that those cots are more comfortable than her couch. That there's no other reason. And sure, Marla does not object but offers to give her a supplementary blanket.

"There's only Sally Blaise tonight, but she's not a problem. She's sedated. After dinner she tried to tear her own eyes off".

Harleen replies that she's fine with it. Sally is just an unmoving form, that gives her her back. She'll never leave Arkham. She makes no progress. Doesn't even attempt to. She's been here for seven years, ever since she drowned her ninety days baby. A typical patient. One of the few women. There's something comforting in the notion that the women's ward is almost empty. _We're constitutionally less animalistic than them_… thinks Harleen, sliding into her bed and bidding Marla good night.

_I had yet another proof of that tonight._

Harley Quinn, captured and locked inside Arkham. Harley Quinn, declared insane. And she will see the world from that perspective. Coarse bed sheets. Hard mattresses. She only lacks an uniform. Who knows how it's like to wear one. She'll have an identification number. Will her grant her access to the yard? And the recreation room? Harley Quinn is dangerous, Harley Quinn must be kept in isolation. No, poor Harley Quinn, she's a victim. It was the Joker who drove her insane. Maybe she can be saved. The primary problem of Harley Quinn is that she can't leave her obsession behind. Just let her man enter her view and she's lost again, and you have to start from scratch. Doctor Leland, will you accept the case? If I'm not mistaken you were friends before she lost her mind. She's in the infirmary now. There's just her and Sally Blaise in right now. Yes, she tried to take her own eyes off, again. Instead, Harley Quinn headbutted the wall many times. Said to the nurses that perhaps that would have gotten the Joker out of her mind…

Harleen grins in the darkness. Thunder, lightning, thunder crack. Barred windows. The picture is realistic. The perspective on her future very realistic. So that's how it feels like: a scared animal, unable to explain his reasons to anyone.

She needs another pill. Her side aches. The faint light of her wristwatch tells her that it's half past five of a dark and stormy Sunday. Did she sleep? She's not sure, but surely she's been imagining a lot.

Mad Harley. No, that won't do. She needs something with more bite. Harley Quinn, Dame of Chaos. Cupid of Crime. Nice. She likes it. It sounds splendidly.

She slips out of her bed while Sally Blaise starts moaning in her sleep.

She greets Marla and announces that she's having a shower and then will go directly to her office to start working.

_So much for Jonathan and his sponge bath._

"It's Sunday doctor, why don't you go home to rest?"

She thanks her, then responds that work moves her thoughts away from unpleasant topics. It's almost true: _her_ job gives her only pleasant thoughts. _Her_ job makes her think of him only. Her job _is him_.

The staff showers are vastly better than the junk patients must do with. When a schizophrenic decides it's time to cut half his own face off, splattering blood on the nearest doctor, at least said medic has the comfort of being able to wash himself immediately, without feeling like an inmate.

The hot water makes her dizzy, but she doesn't lower the temperature.

Disinfection. Erasure. Rebirth.

_Good as new_ she thinks, drying her hair. She should renew her medications, but what would the use be? In a few hours she might be dead. Happy but dead.

She doesn't wear a scrub over her clean clothes. Black pants and red shirt. Coincidence?

_Believe it, Harley_.

Her wardrobe is filled with more and more red and black clothes.

_So what?_

The time to take the bag Jonathan filled into her office. The time to have coffee and a glazed donut. The time to think about what she's about to do. Pretty little time.

There's no one in sight in the cellar. The guard… _Morales or the two Nazis?_... he must be inside. Harleen rings to make them open for her and the unpleasant, loud noise gets to her nerves. Happily it's Morales, although he's looking at her as if she was an alien in a Spielberg film.

"Doctor. Why are you already here? Good God, your face… What happened?"

_Bruises. And I don't like them. These ones at least._

"A nice little assault attempt, Paulo. Nothing bad. Is he awake? If he is not, wake him. Bring him to my office as soon as possible".

"Now? I just had him return from the showers and he's not in a good mood. I don't think it's a good idea…"

In a bad mood? If they wake him up always so early for his mandatory ablutions it's a wonder he didn't massacre them using soap bars only. But the necessity to keep him away from other patients causes some little discomforts.

_How romantic. We showered almost at the same time. Pity we weren't together._

"Now, Paulo. If he complains hit him. Tie him if you must. But don't sedate him: I need him alert. And… please try not to hurt him too much".

The good thing about Morales is that he never asks questions. The bad one is that apparently he understood perfectly what's going on. Ah well, she's tired of keeping secrets anyway.

_Give me a megaphone. I want to tell it everyone._

The asylum is marvelous at this hour. And this day. Barely anyone around. Crepuscular atmosphere. And the sound of thunders is starting to mingle with the cries of the awakening inmates.

_This lark here is Carmine Falcone. In reply, the high note of Jerry 'One-Handed' Tristan._

Harleen does not take the elevator. The shady staircases are all hers.

_Home, sweet home…_

The truth is, there's no point denying it: they're one big family. With dirty secrets and all the rest and the unspeakable secrets and the clannish mentality uniting the group and its members… Yes, yes. Everything wonderful. What happens inside Arkham stays inside Arkham. Forgetting that was Jonathan's mistake. Now it's her turn: Arkham or the outside world. Arkham or Gotham. And the answer is clear.

_Wherever he goes._

Just another mad day. Unlike any other. He knows. It's visible in his face. Morales was right, he's in a bad mood. Because it's only ten past six.

"Sadism, Harley. Gratuitous cruelty. Forcing me to suffer your prattle at dawn. When are they going to plant hot needles under my fingernails?"

It takes something extraordinary to halt his sense of humor, something she hasn't discovered yet. And now Harley is almost sure that he's not crazy at all. Because he's not laughing as she was expecting. All considered, this detail brings her relief. He's studying her. It looks like he does not understand what he's studying. He gets close to her and examines her face closely, in silence. Such terrifying silence. One never knows what might come next. Harleen lets him peek at will, using the time to free his wrists.

_Beautiful, beautiful hands, so elegant…_

She's becoming boring even to herself.

"What's this? What's this?" he asks, lifting her face and keeping his eyes on her. "A lame job. Brutal, quick, mostly unsatisfying. No, that won't do. That. Won't. Do. Isn't the message clear enough? Who did this? Who dared to come and throw garbage on my turf? To brand my cattle? To… to…"

_Come on, say it. Grow really furious._

"…to leave bruises on my baby's face?"

That's the way it should be. He knows it very well. The answer is "anyone". Everybody's repeating it in Gotham. "The Joker's whore". But this doesn't stop them. They lash at her because they can't reach him. And because, truthfully, they're getting over being scared of him.

"Your hair is wet. You'll catch a bronchitis".

As soon as she'll be able to take care of him full time, she'll force him to take more care of his own health.

_"Bruises on my baby's face…"_

"Not just the face".

_Alea iacta est_.

Seraphic, he opens the buttons on her shirt, one after the other.

She presents to his sight the marks the last horrible night left on her. She knows that his gaze will be purely clinic. His eyes don't give a damn about her half-naked body. His eyes only see the job that's been done on her.

_And this hurts more than anything else_.

"The only wounds I want are those you cause me. And don't you tell me once again that I'm crazy. I already know that".

If he's listening, he doesn't show it. Dissection without scalpel. A corpse on an autopsy table. This is how she feels. Soon she'll be a cold, dead body, unable to make him laugh anymore.

_Mission failed, Harlequin_, she thinks, as he rips the layers of gauze Jonathan placed around her body with exquisite care off.

It doesn't matter. It's even good: better to erase any trace of other men. Any kind of trace.

_Beautiful, beautiful hands, so elegant…_

She feels them on her waist, burning.

"You are right, hurting you is my privilege. We should beat it into their heads". It's a whisper, but so venomous.

_Yes, exactly, but what am I supposed to do in your opinion? Get into the street dressed like a juggler and blow a few bombs off in your honor?_

The question, and a few others jump out when she takes his red shirt off. Too much red this morning. To madmen like them it's a good excuse to lose their heads. No fighting or begging. He seconds her. He collaborates. Had she known it would be so easy she'd have made her mind much earlier.

"We have to… reinforce the notion, Harley Quinn".

Reinforce the notion. Mr. J knows that there's only one way: to give the mob outside what they want.

First question. To ask as long as she still has a sparkle of reason. No, she can't really ask it.

_Are you married? My mother used to say 'anything, but never with a married man'. I don't want a wife to suddenly appear…_

It's not as if he'd answer. And wives can die a violent death.

It took a lifetime to get her undressed, although she didn't wear much. Surely, she thinks, he did it on purpose.

_Have we closed the door?_

She has no time to make sure. Being literally slammed on the couch is an unpleasant experience for her battered back, but it's better than the floor anyway. All in all he's been kind. Well, more than usual, at least.

Fear. She's really feeling it now. Ad at the same time she's never been as euphoric. He's real. Palpable. She's done daydreaming about him. She's putty in his hands. Perhaps her bones will shatter. His are no tender caresses, it's a taking of possession. She bites her lower lip as she understand what path his fingers are taking. He's following her wounds, adding to them so that they may become deeper, so that they may become his. She does not ask him to stop, or to be gentler, not even when he plants claw-like fingers in her swollen cheek. It's all well, it's the way it was intended to be. That's the pain that sparkles inside her and makes her lose her head. His pain. He draws him close, searching his lips. Maybe he'll kill her once it will be over, and it doesn't matter in the least. The last months contract into a single instant, passing before her eyes. That first day her Joker was grinning.

"_You flirting with me, lady?_"

An eternity has gone in the meanwhile. Yet she knew even then how it would work out.

_It looks such a stupid thing, true, but perhaps I've been loving you since that first moment, when I saw you and wanted to have you for me._

Her place in the world is at his side, his weight on her, her legs around his waist and the extenuating wait. She would like to urge him to be quick, but instead what leaves her lips is a question.

"Has any woman ever survived such an experience?"

She doesn't want to know. Not really. She doesn't even want to think about what could have been _before _in his life. He's hers now.

"Dunno. I've never stuck around long enough to check".

Yet another of his jokes. Or maybe not. Who cares? She holds her breath when she feels him slide inside her. Novels are always in such a devilish hurry. Novels heap words over words to reach the exalted 'ecstasy', the 'summit', the 'unheard of peaks of pleasure' or similar trashy paraphrases. They never linger on the suspended moment dividing definitively what was first and what came then.

_The moment I become you and you become me. The moment that starts everything that comes next._

The beginning and the end. She is surprised to discover how possessive he is, yet at the same time lacking the brutality she had been expecting. Seems like he's determined to take every moment in to the fullest, as if discovering something unlikely and unexpected. And she becomes completely docile, to make him understand that he owns her, that she'll dance him to his tune, whatever that might be.

_You are my drug. Can you feel it? Make it last forever_.

Adagio. Andante. Allegro con brio. Has she ever hears entire orchestras in her brain before? No, she doesn't think so. What's so different?

_It's different because I was made for you. I only exist since you chose me. You chose me because I always were yours, even when you weren't here._

Everything else is utter nihility, an emptiness to fill with life. Everything else has been sex and delusion. Everything else has been self-hypnosis and a pale shadow she dumbly called love. _Instead, this is totalizing. Seconding you, guiding you, letting myself be guided. It's perfect. Perfect. You're my love, you are my life, you are me.._

How does he feels? What's he thinking about? What is he feeling? The absolute evil, the murderer, the pervert jester… Gone in those eyes that burn feverishly as they look at her.

His rage comes sudden, and were her perceptions not limited to the boundaries of her body she could experience a new form of fear. But it's not like that. She likes his rage. It doesn't give her quarter, making him almost cruel. She knows that he hates her right now, for what he's feeling, that loss of control, for his desire for her. He holds her as if he wanted to snap her in two. She wants to cry his name, but he doesn't have one. He's just her lover, her Joker, her master. Her breath halts in her throat as every fragment of thought dissolves into electricity, flashes dancing before her eyes, fretting pulsations and a torpor that breaks her for good, leaving her without strength.

She wants to tell him something, anything, but apparently her mouth lost any ability to articulate finite words. And if he's silent, lying on top of her, with a heartbeat that seems unable to regain any regularity, why should she spoil that moment made of breathing and awareness?

She grins to herself, stroking his hair. Now she knows how to keep him tied to her. As long as he does not realize it. As long as he doesn't realize how much he wants her, how much he loves her, how much he needs her. Because then he'd consider her a weakness to get rid of. Yes, better to let him think that everything's under control. Let him think her just a pastime, his collared pet. It's fine. It's going to work out wonderfully between them.

The blade of the paper cutter on her neck barely stings. He pushes himself up, to look into her eyes.

_When did he take it from my desk? He always outmaneuvers me. He's quicker than a magician. It must have been when he was struggling with the clasp, or immediately later. Who cares?_

She's completely relaxed. He can do what he has to do.

_Make me bleed, Mr. J._

"What are you expecting now, little thing?" The tip of the blade slides to her left breast. She closes her eyes a little and waits. "I know what you're expecting. Don't you agree that it would be very romantic if I carved our initials here, right upon your heart?"

_Yes, it would._

But she doesn't reply. She waits some time, allowing him room to play. Let him do as he pleases. Let him do what makes him happy.

"Or…" The blade contours her neck, brushes her lips and rests at the corner of her mouth. Now she can say she's a bit scared. Just a bit. Disfiguring her face. It's almost a given.

"You seem to be in love with my scars. Do you think I should give you a similar set? You think I should make you like me? Then we would be a perfect pair. I could patch you up with a bit of needlework. And you would be gorgeous. It would hurt a lot, you know? For more than a month you could drink nothing but liquids. And you couldn't talk. And at times the pain would be so excruciating you'd wish yourself dead. And can you imagine what it would be like to look at yourself in the mirror?"

It's hypnotic. He listens, getting stoned with every word. The most open confession he ever conceded her. Fragments of pure, simple truth. Now she knows it really was worth it.

_Would I really be your mirror image if I disfigured myself?_

"No." He's so beautiful when he smiles. So beautiful when he discover some new little thing that puts him in a good mood. "Your pea brain expects it. Anyone would expect it in your place, and I _hate_ being predictable. Always, always amaze the audience. This is the secret for a successful show. And I want to amaze you by leaving your pretty face exactly as I found it".

A sigh of relief escapes her lips. Will it be like this every time? Cat and mouse. Until the day he'll decide that he's tired of playing and the last reprise can go on stage.

"Do you know who did this to you?" he asks, lightly touching her swollen cheek.

She nods. Of course she does. And she's going to make them pay. She only has to figure out how.

"I'll go get him. Nobody can break my toys".

_All in all is a nicer definition than 'turf' or 'cattle'_. But she would like to take care of it herself. Channel the fury coursing through her. _But it's so nice that you thought about it_…

"Don't you want to leave some fun for me?" she asks, and this simple question drives him to laugh and repeat her name delightedly.

"Harley, Harley, Harley…"

_Yes, I'm Harley Quinn again. Your very Harley Quinn, forever…_

"They're really blue".

Mr. J seems to have made some extraordinary discovery while resting his shoulders against the metal grid of the open window, cig on his lips… _a cigarette he took from my purse without asking…_ while glaring at her.

"They usually try to sell as blue eyes that really are grey or paltry bluish. But yours instead are _really_ blue".

She smiles at him. It's probably an attempt to obtain her forgiveness for slipping out of her arms as soon as she mentioned Batman. A surprising reaction. He put his clothes back on quickly and started to mumble nonsensical phrases. She only understood half of them. The thought that the Bat had saved her sends him into orbit.

"He controls Harley, because he still has his _idée fixe_. Sure. Has he been looking for a new one? No way. He knows that he needs me to keep on existing. So he looks for me. Looks for what's left. An external contact. At times the rat is truly moving".

Batman. She's not happy when he talks about Batman. The topic enthuses him, and she doesn't wish to see him enthuse over anyone else but her.

_You're a strange one, Mr. J. You should loathe him, instead he's your never-ending pastime_.

Harleen sighs. Better not to think about that unlikely homewrecker. And after all Mr. J is talking about her eyes now. He's truly sweet.

_He should get away from the window. Buckets of rain are falling on his back, not to mention the floor._

"Curious" she replies. "Usually when it rains they turn greenish. Are they really still blue?"

He draws in some smoke, then offers her a grin that might be caustic, but maybe is just tired. "It has to be the power of love".

Is he making fun of her? She must not fall prey to pointless paranoia. She only wishes that he'd come closer to her again. No way she's joining him: she can't move. Trying to get up feels like being pierced by scores of hot needles. Still she has to muster the strength to get clothed again. She can't just curl on the sofa waiting for Morales to break the door down to see what's happening.

_That's assuming I locked it_.

It really happened. Her skin is ice cold. She's already missing his warmth. She repeats to herself that it's been great but then realizes she's understating it. It was the strangest, most disconcerting experience in her entire life. She felt as if balancing on the edge of a razor. And her body and spirit are already looking forward to another try.

_Now I can say it truthfully, no one knows you as well as I do_.

"You're not circumcised…" she whispers.

She must cover herself somehow. She's trembling visibly.

He bursts into laughter. And his laughter means everything is fine.

"Sure, and assuredly this will the first objection we'll hear from mom and pops Quinzel once they hear about our… relationship".

How nice. It's not the right time to explain to him that in her life the spiritual element is practically nonexistent and he should not delude himself that wishing her happy Hanukkah will be all that is required of him. She likes Christmas, colored lights and presents. _Expensive_ presents.

_We'll discuss it around December, when I'll ask for a diamond necklace_.

Relationship. He really said relationship. It's true. They have reached that stage.

She likes feeling his eyes on herself. He really seems unable to take his gaze off her. If she didn't feel so cold, if she weren't that hurting, she'd offer him a plastic, sensuous pose. One that would make him consider starting again.

_I'll feel better tomorrow. Then I'll give you a couple of specials…_

"You've got more meat on your bones than I thought looking at you when you had your clothes".

His typical way to offer compliments. She's beginning to get used to such a practice, and isn't sure it's a good thing. It's not his place. He's working with limited means. He's in a cage. He could never really show her who the Joker is. Still, it must be a rush to see him in action, and to be on his side.

She gingerly manages to get up. She puts her clothes back on, and it takes a lifetime. She should stay in bed for a couple of days at least, but does not feel like it. Better to suffer silently than staying away from him. Especially now.

Her hair are all tied in knots. She must make herself presentable, erase all traces of what went on before letting him out of her office. Unless Morales put two and two together, courtesy of the outstanding sound effects the renowned "Mr. and Mrs. Joker" provided. How much could his silence cost?

Once the brush has done its job she collects the gauze from the floor and throws it in the dustbin. This time she's really forced to cure her wounds herself. The couch… It was spared irreparable damage by sheer luck. Next time she'll have to cover it _before_ they start spilling bodily fluids everywhere.

_Next time_…

There's something so wrong with the whole situation that she can't help but having a bad feeling. Keep hidden, make no noises, stay in the shadows, speak of it with no one, feign indifference.

_Dammit why, why, why?_

It's not right. It shouldn't be like this. He hasn't said a word since they finished. He's just stayed by the window, although he isn't smoking anymore.

_To see him in action… just once…_

There's only one thing she sees as proper and in context. She walks to him and puts her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

Harley Quinn. What Harley Quinn wants. What Harley Quinn feels. Harley Quinn's nonexistent fears. The scruples Harley Quinn does not feel.

"I'll let you out of here".

She feels lighter now that she said it. After all she's been ruminating over if for a long time. His arms moving to hold her are his answer.

_It feels so good… Is there a tiny chance that you might take me along?_

"You fail to see the implications, Harleen".

_Harleen?_

Why so serious? It's not like him. He doesn't sound like himself.

_Don't you call me Harleen_.

"You'd become my accomplice. Think about it. You would lose everything you've built. You would lose the life you have now. You'd be bound to me forever, with no way back at all. You would have no choice except being mine for the rest of your life".

Gosh, this is too weird. Is Mr. J worrying about her? Can't he see that the idea of entrusting herself to him completely is so magnificent, she can't even think about it without feeling like fainting? His words only provide further incentive.

_Was this an effect you were aiming for? And that silly Humphrey Bogart voice, is it made on purpose? Did you study everything in detail, Captain Anarchy? I'm so stupid._

And she _can't stand_ him calling her Harleen, and won't gloss over it. And the way he's caressing her hair makes her feel bad.

_He loves me. I know._

"I'll let you out of here" she repeats. "I will, like it or not. It's just that, if you don't help me I could make a mess and land the both of us into trouble. Then they would really lock you up and throw away the key and I could not be with you ever again. I will not allow it. You will one day be the father of my children. So tell me what to do so that everything goes fine. And don't even try to make me change my mind. It's a waste of time".

"Now listen, and listen well".

Easier said than done if he keeps on kissing her neck like that. He should give her a break, enough to concentrate on his words and not on his physical presence.

"Listen well".

Sure. It will be easy now that his true voice, the wrong one, the disharmonic and alien one, is back.

"It's about tearing a picture painted within schematics that do not concern us into pieces".

Schematics. She can feel his smell on her, a perfect chemistry. She needs some sugar now, or she could pass out.

"The question I have to ask you is very simple but fundamental. How far are you ready to go?"

It's really simple. She looks up into his eyes. Is the thunder storm outside giving that glint to his eyes? She'll always be off guard, never knowing what to expect the next moment. She'll put her life at risk, offering it to him without looking back. She will only ask his approval in return, and will do everything in her power to attain it. Everything.

"Far as it will take, and then some to make it fun as well".

It's a delightful sight, that makes her shiver, seeing him grin like that, discovering anew the sparkle of enthusiasm in his burning pupils. He really is a child. It takes so little to make him happy. One only has to become his perfect playing pal.

"Harley, you are… you are…"

_I'm what, Mr. J?_

"You're the greatest, baby".

He kisses her again and it's another moment when he seems perfectly sincere, another one of those moments that make it worth living, those moments when he manages to make her feel necessary.

_I'm the happiest, luckiest woman in the world. And I'll be even more like that as soon as we'll be free._

Her lips are still wet and half open when he regains control of the situation and reminds her with a glare that he's firmly in control of their new-fangled, tiny partnership in crime.

"Now, Harley, listen to me well."

_Never thought I'd get any higher_

_Never thought you'd fuck with my brain_

_Never thought all this could expire_

_Never thought you'd go break the chain_

_Me and you baby,_

_still flush all the pain away_

_So before I end my day_

_remember_

_My sweet prince_

_you are the one_

(Placebo, _My Sweet Prince_)


	15. Lock, stock and barrel

**Interlude #4**

**Lock, stock and barrel**

The first day of Spring gives Gotham city a paltry dun that finally manages to drive all clouds away. These days' pouring rains caused alarm in town and almost isolated the Narrows for three days. Three of the bridges have been unusable. Now the alarm has ceased and Harley Quinn can now return to making herself beautiful without worrying for umbrellas, raincoats and shapeless water-proof shoes.

The welts on her face are vanishing little by little and Joan described as 'radiant'.

"You wear your makeup differently, your clothes differently and your eyes shine. You finally overcame your fixation for your patient and fell in love with a _real_ man, right?" she said smiling, as if she really was glad about it.

Harley didn't deny, but neither she added that the _real_ man and her patient are one and the same. She'll be forced to be Harleen Quinzel for some time more, for everyone except Mr. J, and Harleen Quinzel is not in the habit of painting red hearts on walls.

Frustrated wreck.

She'll endure it with all the stoicism in the world. Too much is at stake, and so far she has made no mistakes. Mr. J himself could find no flaw in the way she carries the tasks he assigns to her out. And he's always ready to pay her her due.

Thinking of this morning Harley smirks.

Love is good for the skin. Cosmetic industries should trademark it.

Don't keep your arm stiff, aim, shoot, call the target to you. Another center, straight to the heart. Maybe it's time to start aiming for the head. Her instructor called her a natural talent. Ever since she started going to the shooting range Harley discovered that there are more relaxing activities than gymnastics. They all end with a _BANG! _In a few days she'll have her own gun. She requested it after the assault. She has to defend herself somehow right? The details, the knowledge of how to shoot _for real_ will come later: Mr. J will see to that once they'll be romantically on the lam.

I love you, I love you, I love you, Puddin', I love you.

BANG!

Not much of a shot this one. Where did she get her paper victim? The pancreas area. She must concentrate, there'll be time to think of her darling later. Now she has to focus entirely on the gun she's holding.

Hey, it's not my fault that I miss him so much…

She would not have imagined that he could be so sweet, so tender, so… so…

BANG!

The spleen. The target would survive. Better to try again.

Her hands are shaking, which isn't good. She must learn to control herself. The work she's doing for him in her study requires minute precision. Thus she has to be able to summon meaningless thoughts in every circumstance. Or, which would be even more useful, to focus completely on what she's doing.

BANG!

Perfect.

Right between the eyes. The best shot in her very short career as a shooter. Pity she has to stop right now, but she's dining out with Wayland the lawyer.

Happily Harleen Quinzel does not seem to be angry with him anymore. Carl Wayland could not help it: when the news of the assault she was victim of reached the front pages he could not stop himself from calling her to merrily tell her that the deplorable accident would have been favorable to them. It's easy to see how. A frail, helpless girl beaten by three brutes only because as a doctor she accepted to do her best for an unbalanced guy who, otherwise, would risk to find his arm on the wrong end of a lethal injection…

She did not take it kindly, not at all. Carl can't remember precisely the litany of insults, but there were many and heavy. Now instead she looks relaxed and is smiling friendly. There's something different about her. Something's different in the way she carries herself. Carl finds himself dry-mouthed as he watches her bring the straw in her drink to her lips. Is she winking? Is she teasing him? That's the impression she gives. But her eyes are looking elsewhere, so probably she isn't doing it on purpose. She's still sexy, though. And before now he never thought she was. Too white bread, too cutesy, too delicate. Why is she looking like a pinup now? The makeup. Her lips, red, bright and glossy and…

"Anything wrong?" she asks, nibbling at the candied cherry she took from the edge of the glass.

"No, not at all, it's just that…"

That… what?

He likes them dark haired, tall and shapely, like miss Ducard. There he said it. He must concentrate on Talia Ducard. Man, he sure digs Talia Ducard… But she won't dine out with anyone. And she always has that Japanese woman wrestler accompany her. Jones, his business partner, suggested that there might be something going on between them.

"No, no. In fact I believe she is married" Hynden stated instead, after inquiring around on their latest source of income.

Ok, better to think of his fiancée Grace. Or, which is even better, of the reason he invited the turgid-mouthed psychiatrist to dinner.

"Well, okay. The reason I wanted to see you is that the sentence will be pronounces the first day of April".

The girl's eyes become as lively as those of a cat playing with a ball of wool. "April Fool's Day? Really? This is won-der-ful. The prince of clowns judged on the day of folly. Sublime".

Carl Wayland feels an utter fool. He hadn't noticed the coincidence. He was never interested in popular folklore and the extravagant traditions deriving from it.

"Tell me, Carl, was it necessary to wine and dine me to tell me a date? You have plans, admit it".

His throat is getting drier by the second. He sips his scotch trying not to entertain obscene thoughts.

It's decided, should she offer a dessert I won't say no.

"I think I can deny it. Not that I shy away from contact with ladies, usually, but there are complications that are best not left overlooked. The prosecution asked the accused's presence for the sentence, so you'll be asked to collaborate with the police to organize his transfer from Arkham to the tribunal and back. I mean… I strongly hope there will be a return trip. But this is not the point: the point is, I want him to show up dressed in a certain way. Like a normal person, to put it bluntly, not with one of your hideous jumpsuits. It would help us by giving the impression that he _can_ actually be rehabilitated. Should you wish so we could arrange for a decent suit to be provided to him and…"

"I'll take care of it" Harleen Quinzel suddenly becomes serious.

What for?

"As you prefer, doctor… try to talk him into doing something mildly crazy, but not enough to offend the court. He has to look crazy, but at the same time less of a fink as he really is".

"Say, have you mistaken him for a buffoon?" The doctor is disintegrating him with her glare, and is almost scary when she applies to it. "He will surely know best what to do. He does not need your input, especially on style. Shall we order?" she finishes opening her lips in a fake grin.

Oh my.

This woman is completely out of her mind. Maybe it's the reason they seem to go along so well. He could almost see them, busy in surreal conversations they only can understand.

"I'm only saying, it would be nice if you would place a big red A on top of my homework. I could lend you my lipstick if you promise that you won't try to put it on".

Such peace. There's still a sparrow nest outside, almost delighting into serenading them. Small concern that Mr. J threatened thrice so far to behead them. Groundless threats. He can't pass through the iron window bars. The nestlings are safe.

"A terrible idea. You would end up staining your hands".

So what?

Can't he ever, ever praise her for her work? She has to be the one to tell herself that she's doing an outstanding job. Ah well, once she'll give his freedom back to him he won't be able to deny the truth any further.

She likes their new routine a lot. He's always so serious as he checks the work she accomplished the day before. Harley Quinn curls onto his chest, enjoying the moments of perfect tranquility. Today the two Cerberus are standing guard, so they had to play at 'total silence, or die', and he did everything in his power to make her lose. The idea that they could catch them in the act makes him giddy.

"Think about it, it would be such fun. A picture of doctor Quinzel orgasming on every tabloid. My fame would reach the stars…"

"Don't you try it, you ruthless bastard" she rebuked him. It's tragic having to deal with someone ready to enact every prank that crosses his mind. "I'm a reserved, shy and reclusive girl. And some things are for you only".

He almost convulses as he laughs. She chooses not to ponder over what could be causing him such elation, especially as she can suspect it. It was her use of the adjectives 'reserved' , 'shy' and 'reclusive'. But it was the truth: he should stop, now. And to stop him she asks on instinct alone, and sinks her teeth into his shoulder. The effect is excellent. Mr. J opens wide his eyes, gazing out transfixed. Who knows what he might be thinking of.

"What are you thinking of? Are you having a vision, sugar?"

It's odd that her reaction didn't send him into a rage. Sometimes she can't understand him, but she was psychologically ready to be punched in the face.

"April Fool..." he whispers. "I have _one great vision_, Harley, will you help me make it come true?"

He doesn't even have to ask for it. One of the Joker's brilliant plans. And, at long last, she can be part of it.

"Of course, sugar. Anything you wish, sugar. Is this the effect of my bites?"

Now that she knows this, she'll repay every blow she receives from him in the same manner. He seems to enjoy it. After all, she once slapped him. He can have another serving at any time: although she's small, she's not short of energy. As an answer he rolls her on her back and looks down on her. He's grinning, but without a hint of merriness. His eyes shine like a drunkard's.

"Every great artist, Harley… every great artist needs a muse to aim at his life masterpiece".

A languid sigh escapes her lips. More than his hands running over her body as if trying to reshape her into something new, more than his lips that imitate the hands unhurriedly, these words make her dizzy. They're more beautiful than any phrase she ever imagined or waited for. And it does not matter to her if they are just lines in a play or not.

Of late, Ricky Thomas is startled by every sound he hears. A dirty conscience, his grandmother would say. And granny would be absolutely right. Repeating to himself that he did not really want to do that, that it was al Rod and Michael's fault and that he would never have gone to the bitter end anyway is of little help. He only wanted to scare her a bit, letting her know that it did no good to a girl like her to side with a monster like the Joker. Nothing else. He couldn't tell what took hold of him later. She was so helpless, so vulnerable. Ready to be eaten in a single mouthful.

_I would_ never_ have gotten to the bitter end_, he once again protests with himself, but it does not make him feel any better. The matter has been in the news. It seems that Harley did not recognize him, but the police is still on the case.

I should turn myself in. Then apologize to her. Or maybe apologize to her and then turn myself in.

She hasn't been seen at the gym after that night, so meeting her makes his stomach stir. He was about to close the doors: five minutes more and she would not have found him. Instead, there she is, smirking friendlily.

"Harley… where have you been?" he tells her without bothering to drop the dumbbells he's holding.

"Didn't you ear, Ricky? Don't you ever read the newspapers? I had a little accident".

Delightful. Red so suits her. How could I do it? She never did anything against me…

"Accident?" he asks, trembling slightly.

She shrugs indifferently. "Three boneheads in the parking lot by my home. Probably they just wanted my purse. I was really scared, and they also hurt me quite a bit. Thankfully a policeman was around and he dispersed them".

A policeman? Is she joking? That was the _Batman_! You don't get pummeled by Batman every day. At least that's something to be still proud of when he looks at himself in the mirror.

"But now I'm completely fine, so I'm back to being a regular at the gym".

Perfect.

"I'm sorry" he says, trying not to avert his gaze. "Do they know who they are? I mean…"

She's smirking still. "No. And as they had covered their faces I doubt they'll ever catch them, sadly. I barely remember a thing, but the police thinks they attacked me because they thought I was the Joker's woman. Poppycock. I mean… who in his right mind would assault the Joker's woman? He's not like us. He knows how to get even with those who wronged him. And what if he escaped? Rest assured that he'd catch the three of them and hurt them, hurt them badly. So no one would be stupid enough to stir his rage voluntarily, don't you agree?"

Ricky is beginning to sweat. Sure, who would be foolish enough to anger the Joker? But he hadn't thought about the Joker at all. Harley was another matter, right?

Then why did you use the Joker as excuse for… for…

Ok, better not think about it. Not while she's here in front of him. She could notice how shocked he is.

"But.. you are? The Joker's woman, I wanted to say. I mean… I also heard those absurd rumors, but did not give them any weight…"

Why the deuce am I asking her? Oh, sure. Because if she is not then that murderous clown has no reason to come here and slit my throat.

And it's also a dumb question. Even if it was true, she'd never admit to that.

"Oh, of course I am. Ours is an intimate, torrid relationship. And I'm trying to talk him into marrying me. You know, there are all sorts of bureaucratic ties… I should have him declared sane beforehand. Once he'll be dismissed I'll get a diamond ring out of him and we'll publish the banns".

I'm screwed.

Perhaps there's still time to flee to Mexico. A much more sensible choice than crossing his fingers in the hope that the police won't lay the blame on him.

"I'm kidding, you dolt" Harley chuckles, looking like the doll on a music box.

He is able to hold back a sigh of relief. "How can you crack jokes about such a thing?"

She does not answer, instead looks around as if deeply bored. "Let's start again tomorrow, fine by you?"

He wants to say no, that she's no longer welcome at his gym, that there's a plethora of impediments that he's ready to make up on the fly, only _right now_ ha can't come up with a single one that's even remotely plausible, so he has no other choice that to mewl out a "fine" and hope she'll be on her way very very soon. Seeing her face is starting to weigh on him.

At least Harley does as he wishes on that. She tells him goodbye friendly and starts to walk to the exit. For Ricky Thomas the torture is over.

"Just another thing, Ricky". Harley looks back at him. "You can crack jokes about anything, know that? As long as you're the one who laughs last".

Her grin… It's as cutting as a razor and just as cold. And her eyes are scary. Even when she's been gone for a while Ricky Thomas can't persuade himself that it was only shadows playing on her features.

Jeremiah Arkham reminds her of a bony preacher well absorbed by his role who dispenses unrequested advice to the lost souls of his small herd. Harley Quinn doesn't even wonder what their meeting is about: she's very little interested in his opinion on just about _any_ topic. Mr. J told her a couple of things about him that made all her uneasiness in his presence vanish.

"The boss knows about it".

"Knows what?".

"About our affair".

"What does he know exactly?"

"Dunno".

"So what do you know?"

"That he knows".

The exchange ended with her trying to pummel him while he laughed about it as usual. Still, Arkham has been studying the development of their relationship for quite a long time. It matter little whether he knows what level of intimacy they have achieved, as he doesn't seem to be determined to drive them apart. What really, truly angers her is that Mr. J only told her now. Had she known about it before she would have had the time of her life sending the old caryatid on paper chases.

"Before Gordon arrives it's my wish to have a word with you".

Serious. Very serious. She scrutinizes her own finger nails. The ball is getting started.

"I expected as much. It's the last hand of cards, doctor. Any specific order for the final showdown?"

Gordon will be at Arkham shortly. He'll have to organize the transfer of Mr. J from the Asylum to the tribunal and seems to be bent on putting all the stops to prevent any chance of an escape.

Good ole Jim. See that you don't disappoint me. I want to see the city's finest in droves.

"Actually I would like to speak of… more personal matters, Quinzel". He sighs melodramatically. "in your last reports on the Joker I could not help but notice a certain laconicism, a sort of most atypical detachment on your part, as if you were losing enthusiasm. Still, looking at you, these days you look exceptionally energetic. It perplexes me. You've come to spending here even your free days. And yet you do not seem at all inclined to share with me the clinical picture you're putting together. And I was wondering what the reason could be".

You know full well why I don't, you slimy hypocrite.

She remains silent. There's nothing she has to say, at least until he starts talking straight. And she _will_ get him to talk straight, to confess how he used her as his guinea pig without asking her consent.

Worse then Jason Woodrue, doctor Arkham. But at least I'm not losing my health for it.

"Fundamentally, Harleen…" The old coot whispers again. "I'd like to talk with you today. We know quite enough about your patient, but you… I wish you could open up and tell me the way you feel after your quotidian meetings with the Joker. If you feel that you're slipping under his influence. If it makes you troubled, or instead see the matter in a constructive light. And what kind of rapport you think you established with him. How the Joker perceives you in your eyes, and what do you suppose he's expecting from the therapy you're administering to him".

Harley prays that there's a patron saint for clowns to help her remain serious in the circumstance.

After our encounters I feel very tired, but absolutely satisfied. If he influences me… Just a bit, I'd say. Unease? Nope. I see the situation as very constructive: I'm learning a lot of new stuff. Our relationship is visceral, deep and passionate. Mr. J sees me as his cherished pumpkin pie and expects me to make him laugh.

"Are you going to psychoanalyze me, doctor Arkham?"

He sighs once again. It's an irritating habit. Harley wonders what he's going to reply now. She's not in an easy situation.

"I'm just interested about your… doctor-patient interaction".

Perfect. 's almost been sincere. He gained a couple points of esteem from her.

"Why don't you just ask me what it is that you want to know, without circling around it?" she proposes, leaning slightly I his direction.

She knows very well that she's sent him into panic. Should he be direct she'll open to him her entire confidence. _Should he_ be direct.

Well, you don't have the balls to go straight for it.

"I can't use a direct question to ask you to define a frame of mind" the big boss dodges.

"So I don't think I can offer a precise answer".

Stalemate. They look at each other for minutes, and Harley Quinn is well aware that her boss is debating internally ceaselessly if she understood what he's aiming at, or it was the joker who told her. And she's damn sure that it scares her, but not enough to throw the towel. Arkham is crazy, after all: like herself, like everybody. She wonders if he's considering planting bugs in her study. She almost wishes he did. Then she could add him to her list with Ricky, Jason and professor Markus.

Then the phone rings. Arkham answers, and shortly after announces her that Gordon is there.

If there's a limit to Jim Gordon's patience, surely doctor Quinzel is doing her level best to cross it. He doesn't like the thing, doesn't like having the Joker downtown. In a courtroom. In the heart of Gotham. It's too perky a chance for the Joker to let it slip through his fingers. He's going to try to escape, that much he knows. And when the Joker attempts to flee… _and generally he is able to_… it always turns out a bloodbath. They'll have to keep a close eye on him the moment he leaves his cell. It will take a dozen of men. And he'll have to deploy something like an army all along the way there. And should he be recognized of compos mentis and redirected to the prison, they'll also have to make sure the way to Blackgate is safe.

Involving the coast guard also to get him to the island.

Mayor Garcia called it a ridiculous expense that merely feeds paranoia, but did not veto it. Jim Gordon is aware of what it's going to cost Gotham, but feels he has no other choice: the risk is too high.

We must not leave the scum any freedom of movement.

He throws the irksome psychiatrist a withering glance, wondering if he'll be able to get her off his back.

"_My_ patient is under _my_ responsibility. You will do nothing that could impair his future rehabilitation. Therefore I'm afraid that you'll have to allow me not only to be with him in the court room, but also to see that your men don't hurt him in any way".

He dislikes this scrawny chick and her know-it-all tone deeply. He had to remind her that her work was over the moment she wrote her valuation and that she'll be free to take care of the Joker _if and only_ the court were inclined to entrust him to the Arkham Asylum. Not that the point did much: Quinzel tenaciously follows him and Arkham while they iron out the details of this colossal hard row to hoe. Jim Gordon isn't happy about it: She's trying to make the police look like a bunch of sadists eager to hammer away at a hapless innocent. And Arkham isn't helping him to get rid of her; on the contrary, he seems to be almost happy that she's there to interject even if not called to contribute. Like when she liquidated his request that the asylum should contribute half the expense with a "don't be absurd".

"Madam, speak to me like that again and you'll end up in handcuffs".

Jim Gordon does not lose control easily, but if this girl was his daughter he'd already have slapped her more than once. She reminds him Jonathan Crane. The same lofty arrogance. Evidently this place is their common matrix.

"I apologize; I forgot that _this time_ you are here on an official errand" she replies with her irritating chuckle.

Yes, sooner or later he's going to put her in the slammer. He'll be waiting for her to do anything wrong.

"I want to see the Joker, doctor Arkham. Alone, immediately. Without a nanny around. I must discern what he's got in his mind. Because I'm certain that he's got _something_ in his mind".

Right now ignoring her is the best option, and hiding as many details as possible from her the most clever. Surely he can't accuse her of wanting to help the one she calls 'her patient' escape, nor of feeding him information. Deep down Jim Gordon _wants_ to believe that this girl he's dealing with is just a bit off-kilter but basically a honest citizen, but when you're dealing with the Joker one can never be cautious enough.

She hates him. That's it. Harley Quinn can't wait for the moment she'll be able to pull a really nasty trick on him, one of those the children are told of during Halloween, those… those like the Joker's, that's it.

_It will happen so soon,_ she repeats to herself while reminding Gordon and doctor Arkham that Mr. J's lawyer will tear a new one into them should he not be present at the required meeting. And it's as if she can read the

beleaguered commissioner's thoughts.

Those damned courtroom sharks, or something like that.

And Wayland is truly good. Just today he won Mr. J the right to receive mail without the police having the right to snoop on his correspondence. Which is something that after all she is against to: she'd rather be the sole tie to the outside world her little darling has. And he still won't be able to write back. Theoretically, their policy is still that he can't have access to any sort of pointed object, which includes pens.

"I see. Surely this is not the best place to start another interrogation" he replies, returning her sarcasm in kind. "However, doctor, I want to make it clear right now that I won't be able to guarantee your safety, or Mr. Wayland's, if you'll be adamant about being with the Joker as he is brought to the tribunal, as I find it clear as day that the man is planning an escape. In that case_, _we surely will prevent him, but I can't vouch that we'll manage it _before_ he decides to kill you both. And believe me, you two will be the ones he'll want to off _first_".

Come on…

"I'll take the risk. My professional role as a doctor demands it".

They all will double up with laughter, on April Fool's Day. Why shouldn't she take her front row seat? She earned it, after all.

"Your profession might come handy should there rise the necessity to pick up pieces" he sums up gloomily. "Try to stay alive, then. You trust your patient too much. Be on guard. Take it as a friendly caveat".

Yeah, such pity that they are not friends at all. And should anyone end up blown it won't be either her or Wayland.

Like surprises, commissioner?

She's tackled at the entrance, before locking herself in her penthouse to decide about Gotham's fate.

He makes uneasy, muddles her course of thought. And she can't afford it. Talia Al Ghul observes Bruce Wayne from behind her sunglasses. The Gotham Grand staff confirmed her presence to him without a fuss. In this town no one denies him anything. It must be thrilling playing both the charming prince and Robin Hood.

In the sunlight her groom –to-be changes face, or perhaps it looks like that because the veil of sadness she saw on his face at the masked ball has apparently been lifted. This is the face that those who meet Bruce Wayne expect to see.

"He's my best pupil, Talia. You're going to be spellbound by him".

Her father had become monomaniacal at that time. His anxiety to find her a husband of his choice had made her consider to remain in Europe, or even to disappear, changing name and possibly even her face. The thought lasted less than a moment: Ra's wishes are orders.

What a fool I've been…

Talia Al Ghul can testify that she experienced love at first sight personally. Bruce grins, just like a Cheshire Cat with no stripes. Suave, attractive and aware of it. She can barely make sense that they met only once. It was one of those encounters one does not forget, however.

"How did you find me, my beloved?" she asks studying his body in a grey Armani suit.

"Talia Head. If you wished to go unnoticed you should have chosen a more cryptic alias. Brunch?" he proposes holding out his arm.

How could she possibly resist? He's wearing the ring she gave him. It's a tiny detail, but it makes her as happy as a little child. She knows she'll be given the third degree, but she can't let the first invitation from her future husband pass.

"What an excellent idea, my beloved" she replies placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. The power of his limb is perceivable even through the cloth. She asks herself how can the Gothamites be so obtuse and not notice the true nature of this fatuous lothario.

"Don't call me 'my beloved', please" he asks her as he leads her to the restaurant area. It does not come as a surprise that he reserved the whole of it: he didn't think for a second that she could have said no.

"We need to talk" he says while pouring her a glass of white wine.

Most assuredly. They _need_ to talk, about so many things.

"Did you think of me, Bruce?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, but not for the reasons you're thinking of".

What a liar. The sapphire on his ring glints like an ice shard.

"This is no way to talk to your wife".

"You're _not_ my _wife_".

Not good. Not at all. Losing his temper over a trifle: what would her father say? He would probably send him off to a glacier, naked, to meditate.

"As you wish, my beloved. To what do I owe this most welcome surprise meeting?"

A frivolous question. He's there for two reasons. First, he wants to know what she's planning. Second, he simply wanted to see her again.

Will you admit that, Bruce?

He's not a bat. He's as beautiful and sly as a large cat.

"I've been tracking your movements. You have a remarkable number of shady contacts. And I discovered _who_ your friend in jeopardy is. If you really came here to complete your father's work, I invite you to desist. You're playing with fire".

_Bruce Wayne_ is _fire_. His fury is delightful, but he's still lying to himself.

"Tell me what you really feel, my beloved".

Oh, it's so easy to see. His ancestors. The fledgling city. And closer in time, up to his father, the philanthropist doused in money, the populist saint. Gotham becoming Gotham, one stone brick on the other.

"Look at the kingdom I'm building to give you, my cherished only child, and hereditary prince".

"This is my city, Talia. I won't let anyone else take control of it".

There, this is better. At last he's honest. They belong to each other, yet her vision of the matter is wider.

"I could let you have it, Bruce, or offer you the whole wide world. Just ask for it".

Is he thinking about it? She excludes the possibility. He owns Gotham already. Maybe he just thinks the whole situation is too complicated for even one such as him, but she meant what she said: her husband-to-be does not realize how much easily her plan could see fruition yet.

"Megalomaniac, just like your father. This is your flaw".

Even when he's angry he's beautiful. But he's moving away from her. It was to be expected: his idealism is too removed from hers. Too limited, focused on this metropolis he sees as an appendix of his own dark self.

"I'm sorry Talia, you're attempting to set free people who would destroy what is my duty to protect. You're allying yourself with the scum of this city to drag Gotham down. How could you ever believe I would join you in this?"

Such a silly question. Love, what else? But this is not the way he works, he doesn't believe in such things. Doesn't believe it possible to love someone you barely know, even if it's destiny.

"I understand" she replies. "You need time, Bruce, to make your mind up and return to me. At the moment you need to despise me. To find another woman that will drive you to despair. Because this is what you want. She'll come into the picture softly, stepping lightly as a cat, and will sink her talons into your heart. And when she'll have made mincemeat of you, you'll be looking for me. I can wait until then. For years you've been dreaming of the girl next door, now it takes a predator to make you see that I stand halfway between them".

Sometimes it happens to her. Intuition, or, in her father's opinion, the ability to foresee events. She does not think it's a metahuman thing at all: more humbly, she thinks she's able to understand people. And Bruce Wayne desperately needs to get hurt before returning to her.

Is there a woman out there that really could hurt you?

She hopes there's none. It would be nice if, despite everything, from today on she were the only woman inside his mind.

"Your arrogance knows no limit. It's something we have in common". Bruce tells her this dispassionately, as if they were just debating what movie to watch tonight. "Would you like to spend the rest of the day with me?"

Her husband's an unpredictable guy.

"To extract some more information from me?"

He grins at her once more. How odd. Her father described him as a gloomy person with an extremely melancholy temperament.

"Among other things".

She's not in the slightest tempted to say no. She can consider this parenthesis the quiet before the storm: starting tomorrow, it will be war.

The gloves are very soft to the touch and the lace on the wrists give an extra factor. What concerns her is the suit, so tight it leaves nothing to the imagination.

A criminal giving the policemen heartache…

"I appreciate it, you know? But the costume I wore for Carnival is more comfortable and less revealing. And the hood is just so funny…"

The tailor, who now is _her_ tailor as well, smirks while she keeps working on a black satin corset.

"You never know, Harlequin" she says as her needle dances in and out of the cloth. "It might come useful for a private show".

Sure, why not?

Her new wardrobe is nothing short of spectacular: the woman has truly an outstanding sensitivity for her job as well as extraordinary discretion. She ascribes this detail to the fact that Mr. J always pays cash. Harley Quinn suspects that things don't exactly stand this way, considering that the latest dresses her sugar lump ordered were paid by herself. He showed foresight: the twelfth is a sober grey outfit complete with a white shirt and an amaranth tie. Very likely he had been suspecting that his presence would have been required in court already. Who knows if he had pictured everything else as well. That they would have become close to the point of elaborating a plan for his escape together, that they would have loved each other so virulently.

_Of course. Not only he saw it coming, he was totally expecting it and made it happen._ She does not really mind. The important thing is that she's with him. And he called her his muse. _What a dear…_

Harley stopped trying to pry info from her tailor. She doesn't care about who he was before becoming the Joker. If she was simply his doctor she'd insist to make him face reality, his traumas, the pain he surely hides inside. But now she's his companion, and has to wait for him to decide it's time to talk to her. Or be quiet about it for the rest of his life. Nothing will change: his past can't possibly be more crazy and bloody than his present. And she must keep watch on his present.

They're going to try their best to take what we have from us…

It's already begun. She would not have believed there were so many trollops who wrote him passionate messages. In the last week she counted fifty-seven obscene letters, sixty-one love letters and twelve marriage proposals. She noted down all the addresses. Mapping Gotham locating every perspective rival is proving no easy task, but it will be useful in the future. And, lately Mr. J is seeing Carl Wayland more than her: she has to pass the time somehow, once the little tasks he asked her to perform are done. Things like the one awaiting her in a couple of hours. A little thing, really.

She wears her gloves and admires her own hands with satisfaction. Her new clothes are really something awesome.

"You have no idea what madness you're signing for, blondie".

Madame 'weave and wicker' had not yet imparted her the daily lecture. Harley had lulled herself into thinking she would be spared this time. Sooner or later it will be clear to all that she has not the remotest intention to be saved.

"You're his tailor. A flanker tailor who keeps his photos and, when all is said and done, cares about him. As you see, you're better off than me, but not by much".

The woman shakes her head. "You can't see it, and you never will. He scares the bejeezus out of me. It's the only reason I second his requests".

Liar.

She's so like herself two months ago. Only she's been dragging the situation on for years.

Harley lays on the floor, among the red and black pieces of cloth resting on the backshop floor. Velvet, satin or humble acrylic. They smell good.

"And? I'm sure there's something else. The problem is admitting it, right?"

The woman throws her an irritated glance. "I'm not in analysis, kid".

"Don't worry, it's free of charge" she replies smiling.

What's with this sudden euphoria?

"Alright. After all, I pity him. I'm a sentimental old codger, living in the past. Are you satisfied?"

Satisfied enough.

She's not going to probe further. She's living in the past. Harley envies her a little: she knows a part of her Mr. J she does not. She resisted the urge of stealing that old photo hanging on her wall: she has no use for a ghost, and he's never going to be _that_ boy again. The thought actually relieves her, as that boy is a stranger to her.

Out of nothing, she remembers his name. It comes to the surface abruptly, without warning. Harley Quinn giggles. What a fool she's been.

He told me. He introduced himself right from the start, and I did not understand it. Who knows how much he laughed at my expense… Mr. J.

"What's up with you now?" The woman doesn't sound anxious, simply irked by the latest crazed individual finding her way into her life and job.

Mr. J.

Harley Quinn draws herself up, feeling all merry. Life is a many-splendored thing.

"I need a wig" she states. After all, it's almost evening and she has a bat to waylay.

For the last twenty years he's been Monty for everyone. He doesn't use his name anymore, even when signing checks. It's what happens when your wallet explodes with fake ID cards. Monty has a finger in quite a lot of pies: he did business with the Russian mafia and worked with both the Bertinellis and the Falcones. However, he made the mistake of letting himself be dragged into the net of that scum in a violet suit. He thought he was the right man at the right time, plus he was young and crazy, thus easy to manipulate. Big mistake. Monty realized it when, calling him 'boss' despite his being roughly the age of his kid, he first felt respect and fear.

"I don't care how you do it, nor how much you chisel over the income. Just let me have what I'm asking you as soon as I'm asking for it".

A pippin for him. The weirdo never showed any interest in money, so Monty could fill his coffers with his blessing. Then everything blew up. And when the Joker was apprehended Monty was scared that the cops could get to him. Mercifully they did not. His club is still prospering and his cover is holding. The survivors of the gang, mostly as crazy as their boss, are laying low waiting for further instructions and Monty can enjoy the new status quo in relax while wishing for the clown to stay where he is for the rest of his life.

It's only eleven p.m. and his club is still mostly empty when the bright-smiling chick waltzes in and steps close to him assuredly.

"Fat, walrus moustaches, dressed like a Texan oil baron. You must be Monty".

Brazen, self-assured and very pretty. Her dark hair are clearly a wig, but he pretends not to notice. She looks like she comes from a solid family, which is novelty there, and someone lusting for an innocent face instead of the saucy girls he already employs could always show up.

"Nice to meet you, girl. Did Bianca send you? Ok, hop on the stage and show me how you strip. Do you need a specific song?"

The fake brunette scowls and takes from her purse a sizeable pile of sheets and places it on the counter, right in front of him.

"I'm not here to land a job. I'm delivering you some".

Seeing the playing card pinned to the top leaf makes Monty sweat. The joker must have at least sixty teeth in his grin.

"Where did you come from? How do I know you're not a cop trying to flush me out?"

The young woman scoffs. "You're too diffident. And you didn't even offer me a drink". Then she gazes at him with knowing malice, an expression so like the boss's. "See, Monty, you don't really have a choice. I can't give you definitive proof that _he_'s the one sending me. On the other hand, you can't do anything but follow my instructions to the letter, simply because I may be telling the truth. So what are you going to do, Monty-boy?"

Shag you, sweetheart.

No, there has to be a pitfall. The Joker is locked up, he can't have picked the skank up. So the 'police' theory is still the most convincing one. And yet those papers reek of the clown's twisted mind. No one else could have concocted something as contorted.

"So what if I'm not cool with it? He's bound to rot his life away in a nuthouse anyway".

The girl arches an eyebrow and smirks. The expression looks calculated to a tee. "My, you want to take his share, Monty? How brave of you…"

Who's this broad? Monty is vainly looking for an answer to the question. The Joker is not one for one night stands. Nor is the Joker likely to choose an assistant-mouthpiece, to be precise. His underlings are either batshit insane or aware of being simple cannon fodder.

"Do as you wish, Monty, but know that he won't take it kindly should things not go as he envisioned them to. And you're very much aware that he won't remain behind those walls for long. They say his shrink can work miracles whenever freeing lunatics is concerned".

Threats over threats. Another word and this woman would not leave his club alive. However, the shivers down his spine are warning him that it would be advisable to pay attention to her.

Fuck, I hoped my tenure would last longer.

He's not thrilled by the thought of becoming a lackey again, but he has no choice right now.

Should he ever return I'll see that he gets an unforgettable welcome back party.

"Nothing else?" he asks the girl. "Just these… shenanigans?"

Nothing on these papers make any sense. Just as usual, after all. And yet, in the end every plan he outlines works out like a charm.

"Nothing else", the girl with a crooked smile confirms. "Put your best bottle in the cantina, there will soon be rejoicing".

She then jumps off her bar stool and leaves, humming a tune.

Crime Alley was the last stop, and it saw her come by several times. The cab driver refused to take her there, which is not surprising. Until now she knew the place only through the images in the news. Being there physically is much worse. Gotham city and its sewer. Mr. J is not at home there, but it's where it all begun. His lair, his net of connections.

Harley Quinn walks briskly to the monorail stop. It will take her home in less than thirty minutes. For today her assignments are done. Being around at night makes her uneasy. Ever since she met the Bat, she's been having the unsettling sensation that he starts spying on her as soon as darkness comes. And wouldn't it be a pity if the man in black was to catch her strolling through the city slums? Ever since the day after she was attacked, Harley Quinn started leaving outside her window a tray of cookies and a thermos of coffee, with a card encouraging Batman to refresh himself as he has his fun of peeping-maniacal-tom. She's not positive if she read them or not, but anyway, he hasn't showed up since.

Of course this means nothing, and maybe you're spying on me even now.

It's really a cesspool, worse than the Narrows. But working at the Narrows helps. Over there, decaying houses and an insane asylum. Here in Crime alley, hookers, drifters and sleazy clubs. And yet she was attacked right under her home, in a respectable place, more or less. Harley Quinn clutches the gun in her pocket. It's brand new, she knows how to use it and is more than willing to. No one seems inclined to bother her, though, except for a girlie with red hair and a few inches of clothes on who tells her to change area because she's in hers now. Harley ignores her, just as she ignores the other girl who apologizes for the redhead and slaps the impudent kid. She walks away thinking of the twenty dollars the little sneak took out of her pocket, thinking their ploy was so clever. Next time she won't let go. She's more than assured that they're going to meet again, and if this is to become her place she might as well start socializing with the Joneses.

More than a year has passed, and the Narrows are still licking their wounds. The rest of Gotham has come to think of the district as their own tunnel of horrors, but the island stands still. The people have returned to their homes, to their lives aimed at surviving as well as possible, given their limited means. And the Arkham asylum is back to beating the time in that corner of the city, like a watch whose mechanics have lost their inner rhythm.

Sometimes Bruce Wayne suspects that should Gotham be ever razed to the ground, that would be the single building to stay up. Its foundations are well rooted in hell.

Night after night, hiding inside his black cloak, the Bat has been peeking into the hollow orbits of its windows. He presented himself a dozen different explanations for such a maniacal search, but none of those sounded convincing. Someone, some time ago, told him that he'd gladly share a padded cell with him. Now that man is locked in the underbelly of Arkham. Was he right? Bruce Wayne never deluded himself into thinking that he was perfectly balanced, yet there's a difference between him and his arch-nemesis. And he must never lose sight of it. Absurd as it is, the conversations he had with him have been the most intriguing ones he had these last years. The clown had him ask himself questions that never before had grazed his granitic notion of 'good'. Batman can't afford to be doubting, though. This is why he sacrificed himself to bring Gotham back to a semblance of order.

But now _she_ wants to destroy this ersatz-utopia. On one side, Talia. On the other, the clown. He, stuck in the middle, would like to still be able to look at Talia and think she's incredibly beautiful. Would like to eradicate the words the Joker planted in his mind. But he can't, and this makes him weak.

And it's at precisely the wrong time.

He can only keep watch on the asylum without making any progress. Nothing happens there at night. He should just plant some bugs inside Harleen Quinzel's office. He should, and…

Break in? Look for him? Talk to him? Absolutely not. That's what he wants. And…

And then he could discover that the place is really the most fitting for a man like him, for a bat disguised as Bruce Wayne.

I am not like you, court jester. You'll never make me believe it.

Gotham's dark wing looks away, then off he flies, to safety. To streets where crime is simple and manageable, and does not threaten his sanity.


End file.
